Swords of the West
by M.B.Liddle
Summary: AU A Different Man. A Different Place. A Different Story. Arthur Peveril is a regular high school student from the northeastern United States. Absolutely regular, except for the fact that he can see the ghosts of the dead. Can this stranger to Fate's plan shake the course of events already in motion? Or will he be tangled by Her invisible chains? Find out in Swords of the West!
1. Chapter 1

**Swords of the West**

Chapter 1: The Sword of Fate Misplaced

* * *

The mid-April sun slipped rapidly towards the hazy horizon, its smoky rays dancing off the tops of Worcester's seven hills to splash against Art's face. Not that he noticed, his head buzzed with a half dozen unfinished thoughts, chief of which, the sight that even now he wasn't sure he believed. He shook his head as he walked along the roughly paved street.

_They've never been quite like that before._ He ground his teeth. _Ghosts. Don't they know they're not even supposed to exist?_ It wasn't the first time he'd thought this. Not that that stopped them from appearing. Floating. Groaning. But never like this one. This one had been screaming. Art shivered despite the uncharacteristically warm spring weather. _Why do I have to see these things?_

For the longest time, as long as he could remember, Art Peveril could see… things. Things no one else could see. It had started innocently enough. His fifth birthday had been interrupted by little floating balls of light that had been fun to play with but had earned him a scolding when he chased them around the garden. As he grew older though, the orbs became more distinct, and even began to talk. That was when he'd learned to keep his mouth shut on the topic. Adults rarely looked kindly on the strange and unusual, and even at that young age, Art had seen the looks of worry on his parents' faces. So the invisible people had become his secret annoyance. But this had been something else.

The boy cursed inwardly. He hoped they weren't all going to start screaming like that. He might just go mad. If he was not already, that was. Art wasn't sure which was more comforting, being crazy or living in a world where the afterlife was little more than floating about rattling your chains at school kids. There was something about those groans, something… frightened perhaps? Maybe they were just as scared of him as he was of them. That was a thought. Maybe he'd stop and ask the next one what in the Hell it was trying to accomplish. If he could stop shaking, that was. No, he wouldn't shake. He'd walk right up to the next ghost he saw and look it right in the eye. He'd ask it what its problem was. Art shook his head again, actually laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of it all.

He turned his thoughts back to the other, more mundane problems he would soon face. He had that project in Biology, (last minute, once again) and there was the matter of his piles of Math homework. Those could wait, he supposed, they were due at the end of the week, but he couldn't let them slip too far. On top of that, he was, of course, late coming home again; something he was sure his mother would have a few unkind words to share with him abou… His eyes caught movement at the end of the street. He could have sworn something dark had fluttered atop the furthest darkened streetlamp. Art peered up into the dark void and failed to catch sight of anything. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his school uniform and let out a deep breath he hadn't been aware that he'd been holding. Then there was more movement, this time at the foot of a wall. He groaned as the movement resolved itself into the faintly glowing form of a young girl carrying the broken end of a ghostly chain. She rattled it meekly, staring out at him with wide, sad eyes. Art locked her gaze with his own and stood stock still.

_Alright, show time,_ he thought, _this is the one, nothing to be afraid of. Just take a deep breath, walk right up to he, and ask her what she wants. It's Hero Time._

* * *

Art Peveril stooped to catch his breath, hands braced against his knees. Damn it! He had been so close. It was just a little girl, sad, alone. And he had frozen up all the same. And then she had taken a step towards him, and he had run, sprinted really. He gasped a ragged breath through gritted teeth. That was supposed to have gone different. He was supposed to have helped that girl. Perhaps he could go back, try again. He looked back over his shoulder. The street was dark and empty and deep down, some part of Art felt a sense of relief for that. That just made him angrier at himself. Perhaps the next time… Art returned to his dejected trudge home. He was getting really sick of telling himself that. Next time, later, tomorrow. This time would be different though. He swore it, on all that was holy if that was what it took. On all of the heroes that he held dear, Luke Skywalker, Captain Picard, and Egon Spengler. Next time he would march right up to that ghost no matter how much it howled, growled, or shook its chains. There was a sudden prickle that ran down his spine as he made his solemn vow. It was spooky, but it put a new strength in his step as he crossed the road to avoid the spot the ghost girl had stood and made to turn onto the road that would lead up to his family's small home. Tonight, Art Peveril was going to be a new man.

An echoing, bestial howl split the night. It was ragged, guttural, and to Art's ears it sounded like fear incarnate.

"That… that better not be a ghost," he whispered to himself. His eyes scanned the windows of the houses that lined the darkened street. Surely something that loud would have brought people to their windows, perhaps wondering who had let loose their pet tyrannosaurus. But nobody came, which meant… "Only I can hear it." Art turned the corner with his eyes closed and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His fingernails were sharp against his palms. The prickle in his spine had become a torrent that felt like lightning in his veins, and he wasn't sure whether that was particularly encouraging anymore. He opened his eyes.

Standing in the street was a monster. Huge and hunched over, the monster looked almost like a great, hairy frog. Its face was covered by a thick white mask that looked like a thick lipped, twisted mockery of a human face that leered angrily at something on the ground in front of it. It tipped its head back and let loose another of the bone-chilling howls. Art's legs felt like water and his breath caught in his throat.

"Not… not fair," he choked out. What the hell was he going to do about that… thing. Why'd he have to make that stupid pledge anyway? The thing rounded back on whatever it was that lay on the ground in front of it. To Art's horror, he saw it was a girl. An oddly dressed girl, draped in black robes and carrying, was that a sword? But, a girl none the less. What was she doing out here? A third bellow came from the huge monster, but this time it was answered. The dark robed and dark haired girl let out a shout and rose to her knees. The monster pounced, its mouth opened wide to reveal two sets of teeth as it twisted in mid-air. The girl in the street raised her sword in defiance and slashed at the monster as it fell on her. The blow was at an awkward angle and seemed to skitter off the hard white mask, but it also deflected the monster's attack. It crashed to the pavement face first and scrabbled with froglike feet to regain its balance. The sword girl didn't give it much time though. She had rolled to dodge the flailing, but now she leapt at the monster again, weapon raised. The monster kicked out and caught her flat in the chest, sending her sprawling.

The fight had taken seconds, but in Art's watching eyes, it played out at a crawl. He wasn't trained with a sword, and he was definitely no monster fighter, but it didn't take an expert eye to see that the sword girl was getting the worst of this fight. Art's fists shook at his sides as the promise he had just made burned in his mind. Fear clamped down on every nerve and muscle from his head all the way down to his toes and a tear slipped out to wet his face. It wasn't fair. He wasn't a hero, no matter how much he wished it. He was going to break his promise…

"No," the electric thrum in his spine grew to a maddening tempo as he stared at the hulking beast. It was back on its feet again and circling around the girl. She looked hurt, perhaps even mortally wounded. At any rate she wasn't getting back up again. The beast looked coiled to strike.

And then, the strangest thing happened. Art stopped being afraid. Art started to feel angry. His jaw set and an almost foreign surge of energy filled him. He wasn't going to break his promise. Not today. The sidewalk blurred strangely. It took a second for Art to realize that he was running again. But this time he wasn't running away. He put everything he had into putting one foot in front of the other as he pounded the pavement. He went unnoticed by both the girl and the monster as he closed. The monster circled again, apparently coiling to strike. Art put on a final burst of speed and made to fling himself forward.

As soon as his first foot left the ground, he knew he had made a mistake. Up close, the monster wasn't just frightening, it was terrifying. The course hairs on its body writhed as if they had a mind of their own and the breath that passed from its mask stank of rotted meat. By the time he realized all of this, the monster had already sprung its attack. It was still ignoring him, its attack was aimed squarely at the defenseless girl. If he could connect, maybe he could throw its attack wide. No, that wouldn't be possible. That thing had to outmass him by a considerable degree. Odds are he'd just bounce off, and the girl would be eaten regardless. That left him one chance. He made up his mind in a heartbeat. He threw his weight onto his forward foot and stamped down, putting his body between the girl and the monster. He stared the thing full in the mask and threw out his arms to present as big a target as possible.

The girl cried out. Art didn't catch the words, but they seemed more angry than anything else. He didn't have much time to contemplate it, the monster's attack landed with sickening force. The pain was unlike anything Art had ever felt before, a searing ring of fire that filled his entire chest as huge teeth and a veritable mountain of muscle clamped down. The force of the attack drove Art to his knees before the beast. Crimson stained his vision even as it stained his clothes. His body was seized by weakness.

"Hero Time," he muttered weakly. He flopped bonelessly to the ground as the beast let go of him and bared gore stained teeth. "It… hurts." The monster appeared to grin and roared again, its hollow bellow ringing in Art's ears. "I… I don't want to die like this. Not like this," was all he could muster as retort. There was a sudden flash of light and the sword girl was back on her feet. She stepped over Art's crumpled body and swung down in a smooth and graceful arc. The blade connected this time and bit deep into the frog-thing's flesh. It howled again, this time in pain and reared back. It shuffled backwards on stubby rear legs, holding its forefeet up in front of it as if to deflect further blows. The girl advanced steadily and swung again, this time connecting with a flabby toe. The sword she carried shone like ice as it cut neatly though the dark flesh. The monster whirled away from her and ran for the darkness across the street. Its body appeared to be swallowed up in shadows and suddenly the street was silent again.

Art groaned as pain continued to curl its poisoned claws in his chest. Blood welled from the neat row of tooth marks and made his white shirt sodden. He coughed wetly. He tried to blink away the redness that clouded his vision and look up at the girl he had just thrown himself in front of a demon for. She was advancing slowly, sword sheathed for the moment. From beneath a severe fringe of black hair, bright eyes regarded him coldly. Her mouth was set in a thin line.

"I… hck," Art tried. The girl shook her head.

"You fool, what did you have to go and do that for?" Her voice was as sharp as her haircut, and seemed older by years than her small frame suggested. Surprise creased Art's features.

"Wha… what? Urgh," Art struggled to prop himself up on his elbows as the girl knelt beside him, but the pain was too much. He fell back to the ground.

"Do not move, lie very still," the girl said. She pressed her hand to his chest. The action drew a sharp intake of breath from the wounded boy and he struggled against her touch. "I said, be still. I am trying to heal your wounds!" Art lay still. Through the pain induced haze, he saw the girls hand glow a very faint blue colour. Warmth spread from where the small hand lay on him.

"Thanks. I… what are you?" Art blurted out. The electric crackling in his bones had receded, but fire still burned in is chest.

"I am Shinigami, one who cleanses the souls of the dead. And perfectly capable of tackling a Hollow of this power level."

"A… Hollow? Shinigami? I don't know that word."

"It is not a word in your language. I suppose Soul Reaper will suffice. Now stop talking, I must maintain…" The girl sucked in her breath and an unpleasant expression passed across her violet eyes.

"What, is it?" Art asked. He barely felt the cuts on his chest now, but the burning had only gotten worse. More frightening still, a hard fist of ice cold was settling in within the core of the fire.

"It is, worse than I expected. The Hollow's bite carried with it a further corruption." She withdrew her hand and laid it on the hilt of her sword.

"Wha-what? You can, you can fix that though, right? And what do you mean by corruption? Am I going to get sick?" Art remembered a bout of a flu he'd had once that had almost killed him. He was lucky he lived right above his mother's pharmacy, but for an entire weak he had been too weak to even rise from bed.

"No, you won't get sick." The girl said, and a hint of sadness splashed her tone. "And you won't die, either. It will be much worse than that. To bare a hollows corruption on your soul while you yet live… It is the greatest of abominations." Her hand clamped around the wrapped hilt of the sword and pulled it out sharply.

"What are you doing?" Art asked weakly. Already he was losing feeling in his arms and legs as the burning feeling spread. The hard core of cold seemed to have congealed in the dead center of his chest, making breathing hard.

"Only the blade of a Soul Cutter can cleanse you now. I am… sorry. I will try to make the strike clean. There shouldn't be any more pain." The girl stood as she gripped the sword in both hands. Realization clawed its way past the pain and ice chill to mark Art's face. More tears joined the single track than ran down his cheek. So this is how it would end. A pointless sacrifice to a monster that shouldn't even exist. He cursed his rotten luck and his ability to see ghosts, and his stupid, stupid oath.

"What will happen to me?"

"You will go to Soul Society. Do not worry; it is a wonderful place, full of beauty. You will like it there, it is peaceful," the girl gave Art a sad but genuine smile. It warmed him a little. He nodded and took a deep breath. It ached in his chest.

"Can I at least know your name?"

"My name is Kuchiki Rukia," she said.

"Thank you, Kuchiki," Art said. It was a pretty name, he decided. Perhaps he didn't mind dying too much, if it was to save a women with a pretty name.

"Please, call me Rukia," Rukia replied.

"Okay, Ru…" the sword plunged down, bisected his words even as it sliced into his chest. Rukia was right, there was no pain. In fact, there was a rush of electricity, much like that which had run through his spine before he had turned the corner. Light bloomed before his eyes. "That's weird; it's so bright for night time. Why is the sun so high in the sky?"

The light grew and grew, until it filled his entire vision. There was a rushing noise that filled his ears and he felt his body lift from the ground.

* * *

Author's Note:

Welcome to Sword's of the West, and thank you for reading! As you may have noticed, this is my first Bleach fanfiction and, on top of that, it is likely quite different from others posted to this site. It's my hope that you'll be gentle with your criticism, but I of course welcome feedback in any form. That said, there are a few things I would like to state before the story get's into full swing. First off, I am still pretty new to anime writing in general, and Bleach in particular. I'll be the first to admit that my grasp of the canon is shaky, and of Japanese and Japanese culture even shakier. That said, this fic by it's nature will play fast and loose with the established canon.

Hope you enjoyed reading!

-Liddle Out


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: A Day, Like Any Other

* * *

Rukia Kuchiki stood stoically over the body of the strange, wounded boy. She held her Zanpakuto blade pointed downwards in a steady, two-handed grip. The idiot boy had ruined her planned ambush with his foolhardy leap, placing himself between her and her prey. But even now, as she stood ready to cleanse him, she couldn't help but feel pity for the poor human. Perhaps even sympathy. The boy looked up at her with eyes half glazed over with pain.

"What will happen to me?" he asked. His voice quavered slightly with fear.

"You will go to Soul Society," Rukia began, "Do not worry, it is a wonderful place, full of beauty." Images of the rough slums reserved for newly dead souls flashed in her head as she spoke. "You will like it there, it is peaceful." Rukia felt a pang of regret as she forced her face to form a smile. It seemed to have the intended effect though, the human boy's face relaxed some, his eyes reflected less pain. He struggled to form another sentence.

"Can I at least know your name?"

"My name is Kuchiki Rukia," Rukia said. She tightened her grip, preparing to deliver the death blow. She tried to imagine the boy wearing the mask of a Hollow. A Hollow would be easier, she'd been trained to fight them. Just one thrust and…

"Thank you, Kuchiki." The boy said, calling her by her clan name.

"Please, call me Rukia," Rukia threw her weight behind her sword, not waiting to hear the boy's response. Hearing his name might dispel her resolve, might weaken her strike. All she had to do was miss the heart…

The blade rent flesh as if it wasn't there. It slid easily between cracked ribs, piercing something much more than mere flesh and bone. Rukia sighed, her duty done.

There was a flash of piercing white light.

* * *

Art felt himself lifted, pulled into the air. Hot white lightning poured up and down his core and arced from fingertip to fingertip. His last thought, before the fire drove it from his mind, was that ascending to heaven was a lot more painful than he had hoped. Then the fire stopped burning. Art opened his eyes. He was not, as he had secretly hoped since he was a young child, standing on a fluffy cloud before a great pair of golden gates lined in pearls. He was standing on Grove Street, half way between the Kennison's two story apartment and his own family's small pharmacy. More accurately, he was floating just a few feet above the street. Art dropped lightly to the ground, his leather boots barely making a sound on the scratched asphalt.

_Was I even wearing boots today? I don't even think I own a pair like these things. _The boots were plain looking, brown and cut to end just below the knee. _Wait, where did I get these?_ His hand went to his chest. The bloodstained buttoned shirt was gone, as were the torn khakis. In their place was a simple black tunic, belted at the waist to fall in two leaf-shaped folds. His legs were clad in grey leggings. But most importantly, both were whole and unstained. His hand felt the soft fabric to find no trace of the wounds that should have lay beneath.

"You… you fool…" Art spun at the noise. That girl, Rukia she had called herself, sat on the ground next to his… Art's blood chilled. The girl, black robes now pure white, sat beside the crumpled form of his own body. Art looked himself in the face and saw blank eyes staring unseeingly back.

"Am I… dead?"

"Death would be too good for you, you no good liar! What kind of idea is this, taking my powers like that? Was this all part of your plan, acting all helpless like that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Art yelled back, "What powers? I thought you said that you were sending me on to the afterlife." Rukia's anger faltered slightly.

"Don't lie to me! You know what you… you must know." Her shout was cut short as the ear splitting howl of the Hollow sounded nearby. Art felt a wave of trembling fill him again. "The Hollow is near. Fine then, thief. Keep what you have taken. But now you must fight it!"

"Fight? I thought you killed it."

"I merely drove it back. I would have finished it if you hadn't tricked me."

"You've got me figured all wrong," Art replied weakly, but he felt his hand clench into a fist. There was no way he was going to let this monster much on him twice in the same day. "But fine, I'll kill this Hollow thing. Give me your sword." He looked down, looking for the gracefully curved katana. It was nowhere to be found.

"Idiot, you have to draw your own zanpakuto!" Rukia yelled. Before Art could query her on what the hell that was supposed to mean, the frogfaced devil leapt from the shadows with a howl. Art threw himself to the side, surprising himself with his own speed. The Hollow rushed past trailing an evil smell. It turned, lightning fast and struck again. Art dodged again, this time barely escaping the toothed maw. A fang clipped his shoulder. He spun around, briefly surrounded by a halo of pattering blood.

Are you going to keep running away, or are you going to fight it?" Rukia demanded. Her call drew the Hollow's attention. It howled and leapt right at her. Art watched it happen as if in slow motion.

_Yes. Yes, I'm going to fight. I'm going to fight the Hollow, drive it back. Then we can fix the… whatever the hell is going on right now. But first, I have to fight._

Art felt a weight form in his left hand something hard and heavy was growing beneath his fingers. He clasped it, finding it roughly cylindrical and made of unfinished wood. Art smiled.

* * *

The Hollow was at the peak of its leap. The moon glittered coldly of its broad, toothed mask. Rukia lifted a hand and fruitlessly attempted to summon her kido to her aid. Her attempt summoned little more than a ripple of stray spirit energy. Out of the corner of her eye, she could still see the boy she had thought helpless standing stock still behind the beast. She berated herself silently. She should have known something was wrong with him. Normal humans couldn't see Hollows _or_ Soul Reapers. What was more, she hadn't felt even a glimmer of his presence until he was right in front of her. But still, the boy seemed clueless as to what it was he had taken from her. Rukia supposed it was all rather meaningless now, either way.

The Hollow was now falling back towards earth, and towards her. Idly, she wondered what would happen to her if she died here. Would she return to Soul Society once more the penniless urchin, or would she be reborn, split from her memories and forever separated from Renji and the others.

There was a dreadful cracking sound and Rukia felt something warm splash her face. The hollow screamed this time and began to beat at the pavement with such fury that stone chips began to bounce and skitter across the road. Rukia opened eyes she hadn't realized she had closed. The boy stood bowed before her, his back turned. In front of him, driven into the ground by the force of seven hundred pounds of Hollow, was an unusual zanpakuto. Rukia gasped lightly.

It was quite unlike any Soul Cutter she had ever seen. Though only about three feet long, the sword was broad and almost entirely rectangular. The blade looked like it was unfinished, its surface black and rough. When Rukia looked more closely she saw veins of shiny white metal laced up through the center. The boy grunted under the strain and fell to one knee.

"Are you alright?" he asked shakily.

"Yes," Rukia said, eyes still fixed on the sword. "quick, before it is able to recover. You must destroy its mask."

"Destroy the mask, right. Easy peasy." The boy grunted again and drove himself back up to standing. With a mighty heave, he twisted and pushed back against the still airborne Hollow. His sword pulled up out of the asphalt to reveal a flat top that cut a forty five degree angle from the back of the sword up towards the pointed tip of its sharpened front.

The boy whirled awkwardly in place, throwing all of his strength behind the move. The Hollow was thrown sideways, impacting the pavement face first. It howled and quickly rose to its feet. Its teeth snapped, but the boy was already swinging again. He held the blade's long handle in an amateurish two handed grip and swung it in a flat arc. It impacted with a sharp crack and splintered the Hollow's mask. It was not deep enough though, and the Hollow drove in again. The boy lifted the blade above his head and brought it down like a hammer.

The mask split in two like the rind of a ripe fruit and the two halves fell to either side of the victorious stranger. The rest of the Hollow's body erupted into a pillar of black smoke and it was gone, leaving only the faint echoes of its last, strangled battle cry. The boy fell to his knees and rested on the round pommel of his zanpakuto. Sweat stood out on his slick forehead and ran down in rivulets through the unruly dark brown hair at his temples.

"You… you did it. The Hollow is gone." Rukia said. She realized that she didn't quite keep the surprise out of her voice. The strange boy looked back at her with a glint of steel in his eye.

"You didn't think I could do it?"

"Not that you couldn't, that you wouldn't," Rukia replied. _Have I actually misjudged this stranger so badly? Surely a thief wouldn't stay behind to save his defenseless victim from a Hollow. Even one as small and meager as this. _"Why?"

"Why what?" the boy asked. He swayed dangerously on the end of his sword and for a second Rukia was convinced he'd pass out right then and there. He steadied himself though, and turned to face the depowered Soul Reaper. "Why'd I fight that thing when it was about to eat you? Seemed like the right thing to do, if I really did have your powers like you said." The boy smiled feebly. "Do you still think this was all part of my plan?"

"I'm not so sure anymore," Rukia found herself saying, "Don't think I've completely given up suspicion though! I still don't know how you ended up taking my powers!" Rukia watched the human's face fall. But was it because she was on to him? Or because he really knew as little about what was going on as her.

"Can I, return, them? Your powers, I mean." The boy said. "How would that even work?" his hand fluttered on the hilt of his sword.

"Don't even think about it," Rukia cautioned the boy.

"What?" he recoiled from the blade's handle. "Oh. I just figured, you know, you stabbed me and I got your powers. Maybe it would work in reverse, is all."

"Transfer of Shinigami abilities only works one way, you fool. Only from Shinigami to human and it is very rare for it to be successful." An ugly thought occurred to Rukia. She knew the penalty accessed on Shinigami who empowered regular humans. "Either way, I doubt you have the control of _my_ powers to pull it off."

"Ok, so where does that leave us?" The boy asked. The look on his face made it look to Rukia like he already had a pretty good idea about what she was about to say.

"Isn't it obvious?" Rukia asked. She drew herself up with every scrap of her nobility that she could still gather. "You will have to take on my responsibilities. Protecting this city is your job now, until I am able to regain my own powers." From where she knelt beside the boy's limp body, she cast out an accusing finger as if to physically pin the boy's new responsibilities to the chest of his strangely tailored Soul Reaper robes. The boy made a strange noise in the back of his throat. The lights winked out in his eyes and the boy collapsed over his own sword.

* * *

Arthur Peveril awoke with a start. Outside, a light morning shower pattered against the wind as birds chirped sweetly in the tree that sprouted from the Grove Street sidewalk. Art groaned and covered his eyes with his arm, willing himself to go back to sleep. He rolled over and made to pull the covers over his head. Art rolled off the edge of the sofa.

Fully awake now, he leapt to his feet. He swung his head from side to side, sweeping his surroundings. The familiar sights of his own living room met him. The wide, wood paneled room was still dimly lit, the sun's thin fingers only just making their way through the thick slats of the blinds.

"What am I doing out here?" Art asked himself groggily. It had been a long time since he'd passed out on the couch watching cartoons. He looked over to find the TV set resolutely switched off. Art shrugged it off and rubbed at his eyes. _That was some dream. I don't think I've ever had one so vivid, or so real._ Art clutched at his chest, wincing as his fingers found a ring of bruises that encircled his back and shoulders. _I know I've never dreamed so hard that it left marks._ He tried to recall the specifics, but the whole night before was foggy.

There'd been a ghost, but of course there had always been the ghosts. And a girl, short, black hair, a sword? And a monster attacking her. Art remembered the teeth and gripped his shoulder a little tighter as he remembered the crushing feeling. Then there'd been a fight and a sword. Then a lot of talking. Wholes? Hollows? Something about a bunny? That didn't seem right. Art shrugged it off and picked himself up off the floor. From the sounds coming up from below, his mother was already making the preparations for opening the small corner pharmacy that she owned and operated. And if that was true, Art was soon going to be late for the beginning of school. Panic overtook him and he rushed to his bedroom.

An abbreviated morning ritual later and he was rushing out the door. With luck he'd catch the first city bus trundling up it northerly route. Otherwise it'd be a mile and a half sprint up the road, and Art really didn't want to start off his day like that ever again. His face lit up as he saw the big blue city bus idling at the stop just down the road. He stuck out his arm and waved to the driver. The bus pulled away, leaving Art waving weakly at its retreating back.

"Damn it!"

* * *

Art pounded up the front steps of St. Peter-Marian High School at a gallop. He shot past the few upperclassmen still loitering around the doors and burst into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. The run had been brutal in the mid April sunshine, but he'd been able to make excellent time.

"Only fifteen minutes late," he muttered to himself, "which would be fine on any other day. But today, today English had to be first in the class rotation." Art screeched to a halt in front of the doors to the third floor and shuddered a little. Nothing quite put the fear in a tardy freshman like Mrs. Belushko's disapproving stare. Art steeled himself, took a deep breath, and forced himself to march out onto the third floor. It was deserted, but of course, it would be. Mrs. Belushko's English classroom door stood slightly ajar. Art approached it tremulously, only to freeze as the door was pushed open.

"You just gonna stand there, kiddo?" Art felt relief blossom across his face as not Mrs. Belushko, but Sean Nichols popped his head out. "Make it quick, alright. Betty just stepped out for her morning coffee," Nichols made a beckoning motion. Art smiled and stepped towards the door.

"You know, I wish you'd stop calling me that, old man,"

"Hey, if the shoe fits, bud. What's got you sneaking in so late anyway? You miss the bus again?" Sean gave Art one of his trademark smug grins that had once infuriated him back before they knew each other.

"Yeah..." Art trailed off as he heard footsteps come down the hall towards him.

"You two, what do you think you are doing out in the hallway?" Art turned slowly. Right behind him stood the squat, white haired figure of his dreaded English teacher. "Late for my class again, Peveril? You know that I'm going to have to give you detention this time."

"No need," Sean spoke up quickly, "In fact, this is totally my fault. You know, I was just thinking of sneaking out and playing hooky today, but my buddy Art here stood up to try and stop me. You know what a goody two shoes he is," Sean spoke with the easy confidence for which he was well known, "anyway, you caught me, I've learned my lesson. Let's go back to our seats, Artie."

Mrs. Belushko regarded the two freshmen with a haughtily arched eyebrow before slowly shaking her head.

"You're lucky I like you, Nichols, or it'd be detention for you. Now go sit down, the both of you, before I decide I have to drop kick you both down the stairs." Art nodded respectfully while Sean offered up a blasé salute. The two boys turned into the room and found their seats while the elderly but still fearsome English teacher hobbled over to her position in the front of the room. "Okay, boys and girls, open up your books to chapter fifteen. Let's see if I can't beat some vocabulary into your heads before the years ends and you become somebody else's problem."

"Thanks, man," Art whispered to Sean as the other boy took his place at an adjacent desk. Sean waved off the gratitude with a lazy hand motions.

"It was nothing, can't leave my bro hanging, can I?" the boy flicked his eyes up towards the front of the classroom. "You're going to want to take notes on this one. I hear the word of the day is 'apparition.'"

"Screw you, Nichols," Art muttered, but withdrew a pencil and paper regardless. He left his hand free reign over the paper and stared off into the middle distance as Mrs. Belushko's gruff lecture voice washed over him. The verbs, adjectives, and nouns passed him by but left little effect. Instead, Art found himself circling back to the weird dream he'd had the night before. He just couldn't shake how real it had all seemed.

"Those are some spot on notes you've got there, man. If it's all the same to you though, I think I'll copy Sam's homework today, 'kay?"

"Hmm?" The world snapped back into focus around Art, and he looked down at his note paper. He hadn't written a single word. Instead, the entire sheet had been taken over by a pencil lead rendering of a shadowy white mask. A shadowy mask with two sets of shiny, pointed teeth.

"Bet it'd make a kickass tattoo though," Sean remarked. Outside in the hall, the bell signifying the end of the period rang. The sound startled Art. He had been out of it for a full half hour.

* * *

Art left the skull-faced mask drawing in the safety of Sean's dull green fabric binder and bid goodbye to his best friend as the two separated to go on to their second period classes. For Sean, that meant goofing off with the notoriously lenient freshman history teacher. Art, however, had the misfortune of following the grumpy Belushko with the stern and eternally prim _Professor_ Maurice. And of course, it had to be lab day.

"Careful, Arthur! You're going to spill that acid everywhere," his lab partner called, just in time to prevent the thin test tube from slipping between his fingers. "You alright there?"

"Sorry, Maria," Art apologized, catching the tipping vial in a closed fist. "Can you imagine what would happen if I had let it go? Probably would have eaten a hole in the desk."

"Don't be ridiculous, this acid isn't nearly that strong. What's gotten into you anyway?" The first thought that ran through Art's head, '_Definitely not a sword,' _was quickly discarded. Instead, he went with what he assumed was a nonchalant silence. His lab partner didn't give up though. "Nope, you don't fool me one bit, Arthur Peveril. Something's different about you; I just can't put my finger on it."

The girl's eyes flashed behind her glasses as she gave him an assaying look. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it, because after a moment of looking him up and down she returned to the task at hand. She plucked the test tube from his hand and jostled him out of the way with an upturned elbow. Art gladly gave way and breathed a small sigh of relief. Earlier in the year, he might have relished that kind of attention from the short brunette, but today it only increased his general sense of unease about whatever had happened the night before. Art was no longer certain he had dreamed all of it. Or any of it.

"So, did you hear the news?" Maria asked, pausing to transfer the pen she was using to take notes so she could measure the amount of liquid remaining in the tube. Art made a noncommittal sound in reply. Maria shook her head and continued. "I figured you hadn't. Some people in Geometry were saying we're getting a new transfer student today."

"Oh yeah?" Art replied. He flipped open his own lab notebook to jot down a few of the observations his lab partner was making. "Isn't it a little late in the year?"

"That's what I said, only get this. They say that she's transferring here all the way from Japan. I guess that's why she'd be joining us so late in the year. I mean, if her parents had to move, she really wouldn't have a choice."

"I guess not," Art said distractedly. He was focused on scribbling down all of the pertinent information before the period ended and had only half heard what his lab partner was saying. "Wait, did you say that she was from Japan?"

At that moment, the bell rang. There was a rush to clear away the ongoing experiments and students pushed to gain access the few sinks that lined the back wall of the classroom. Maria disappeared into the press, notebook under one arm and both hands full of apparatus. Art gave up on chasing down and answer and instead turned to wipe down the work counter. It looked like he had ended up spilling some of the compound after all.

"Yes, yes, yes, your dedication to clearing up the lab is admirable," _Professor _Maurice said irritably, running a hand through what was left of the hair that ringed his head, "but kindly exit my classroom. I don't want your homeroom teachers complaining to me about how long I keep you." The teacher muttered to himself as the kids filed out smoothly, his opinion on the other teachers deigning to harangue _him_ the only PhD on staff obvious.

Art didn't see Maria in the hallway, so he made for his own homeroom. He'd have to catch up on the notes later, maybe at the table they shared for lunch. Sean would be there two, Art made a note to try and slip out of the preceding class early and beat his friend to the line. Lunch would be his treat today, whether Sean liked it or not. Art was still wrapped up in his lunch plans when he dropped into his desk. He remained lost in his own little world while the headmaster gave his morning address and even continued to stare into the distance while his classmates began to get up and cluster into their various cliques.

Someone brushed past him to take the empty seat to his left. Art didn't pay the newcomer any mind until they spoke up. The soft contralto was undeniably familiar.

"You!?" Art uttered. Sitting beside him was the black-haired girl from his dream. _Or, more accurately, the girl from last night_. Art thought.

"Oh?" The soul reaper said. Her voice took on a high, girlish quality and her face split in a wide smile. Her violet eyes were hard though, and they bored into Art's. "And you must be Arthur Peveril! It is so nice to meet you for the first time! Please, call me Rukia." Rukia extended her hand palm up with a girlish giggle. Art had to stoop to catch his jaw as he read what had been written there in thick black ink.

_Make a scene and you're dead._

Art nodded meekly. Rukia seemed pleased with the reaction. "Since I'm new here, perhaps you should give me a tour of the building. I would hate to get lost on my first day, it would be so embarrassing." Before he could react, Rukia had grabbed Art by the hand and pulled him from the room.

* * *

Author's Note:

So this fic, which began as a way to clear out a case of writer's block, appears to have completely taken over my writing schedule. Only time will tell if this is a good thing or not, we shall see. I'd like to thank any returning readers and also ask that if you have enjoyed this chapter, hated this chapter, or anything in between, please leave a review. I read every one and try to respond in a timely manner. I also find it to be the best way to improve as a writer.

This Chapter comes with special thanks to my little brother, who not only turned out to be an excellent resource on the show, but also the best sounding board an author could ask for. Thanks bro.

-Liddle Out


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: A Day, Unlike Any Other

For the first time in his life, Art found himself being shoved none too gently into the empty storage closet on St. Peter-Marian's second floor, and by a girl none the less. He wasn't enjoying the experience nearly as much as he had imagined he would. His mind was still rushing to catch up with the fact that this particular girl had stabbed him through the chest the night before. Stabbed him with a sword. _Who does that?_

"Hey, what do you think you're doing," he managed, as the raven haired girl shut the door behind them.

"Hush," she said, raising a finger to the flustered boy's lips, "and don't get any ideas, I know how you boys get when all alone with the girls."

"What? No, honestly, furthest thing from my mind right now," Art lied, "I'm more concerned with the fact that you are real at all. Which means that all those things you said about Hollows and Wholes was real too. Or is that it? Am I just having a really elaborate breakdown?"

"No," Rukia said, in a somewhat exasperated tone, "I'm afraid that we are both quite sane. I hope you do not believe that this imaginary insanity will release you from your new responsibilities."

"My…" Shadowy images rearranged themselves in Art's mind. "You want me to do your job. Fight ghosts, I mean. I guess this means that you don't think I intentionally stole your powers then."

"That remains to be seen," Rukia replied. Her annoyance had abated somewhat, replaced with a lecturing voice that Art recognized from countless classroom teachers. "Though it is good to hear that you haven't completely forgotten everything. Yes, I _expect_ you to do the job of a Soul Reaper, at least until I regain my powers. But you won't just be purifying Hollows. You are also responsible for performing the rite of _Konso._ The Soul Burial. It will be your job to lead the departed on their way to Soul Society."

"I've got to send dead folks up to Heaven?" Art asked, "What if they deserve, you know, the Other Place? What do I do then?"

"That's not important. As a Soul Reaper, your sole responsibility is to perform _konso_ or purify Hollows with your _zanpakuto_. Your sword will cleanse a soul of any sins it has performed since passing, but what it was before, it is not our place to pass judgment." The depowered Soul Reaper slid a hand behind her back. She saw doubt in the boy's eyes and was prepared to force the issue, if it came to that.

"I'll do it," Art said. Every fibre of his being screamed to reject this woman's demands and run far, far away. Somehow he doubted he'd get far. Something stopped him though. Somewhere, buried deep though it might be, something inside Arthur Peveril _wanted _to be brave. More than wanted. Craved. It was this that made him raise his head to look Rukia straight in the eye. "I will be a Soul Reaper."

"Good. This makes this a lot less awkward then," Rukia replied. She lunged, bringing the gloved hand around from behind her back. Art caught a flash of blue and gold, an image of a skull in red. There was a moment when he felt her hand touch his forehead. He felt the rest of his body move in reaction. And then all he could feel was the hand. He was surrounded by bright light. The pressure of Rukia's gloved hand lifted and the world snapped back into focus around Art. He was standing over his own crumpled body again. He clasped a hand over his now ghostly mouth to mask a yell.

"What did you do?" he managed.

"I have removed your soul from your body. Don't worry, it isn't permanent, but it is necessary for you to do your job. Now, follow me." The girl turned immediately and reached for the door's handle.

"What, looking like this?" Art asked. He motioned towards the same all black attire that had appeared the night before. The simple knee-length black tunic and soft grey leather boots looked much more solid in the light of day, and the long sword in his hand felt heavier. It also looked even more unfinished. The cracks that ran up its length had widened slightly, exposing more of the white metal underneath. Looking it up and down, Art noticed a chip had flaked off near the angled tip.

"Exactly how many people do you know who can see spirits?" Rukia asked. The impatience was slipping back in to her voice.

"Good point," Art conceded. He looked for a place to put his sword, but found none. The scabbard at his hip was still far too small for the black iron blade.

"Come on, it's time to get to work," Rukia said. She pulled out a small pink cellphone and flipped it open. "A Hollow has just appeared nearby. It will be up to you to purify it." She pulled the door open and stepped out. Art had no choice but to follow.

"Wait, now? I mean, I still have school to go to. I can't just pop out every time that phone rings. Hey, Rukia, wait. Rukia!" the girl wasn't listening. She was already heading for the stairs. It wasn't until she had passed through the double doors to the outside that Art caught up. "Hey, wait a minute!" He reached out and made to grab her arm. To his surprise, he actually caught her.

"Didn't you just agree to help me?" Rukia asked. "Because if you were serious about it, you _will_ 'just pop out' every time. And not just when it's close by. By accepting, you agreed to react to every Hollow, every lost soul. It's not about you anymore, it's about them. So what's it going to be? Are you still willing to be a Soul Reaper?"

"Yes," Art said, after taking a long breath. "I guess I'm going to rack up a lot of absences until you get your powers back." Rukia smiled.

"Don't worry about that now; there are ways we can get around it. Focus on this Hollow for now. You got lucky you know. This one appeared just across the street."

"I don't know if I'd call that luck, over the street is the old old folk's home. It holds the middle school kids now."

"Then we had better hurry then." Rukia said firmly.

* * *

"Duck!" Art heeded the order just in time. The cyclopean Hollow's fist passed through the air above him with a whistling shriek. The Hollow was an ugly bastard. It stood about twelve feet tall; almost double Art's own respectable 6'2". Its mask was wide and brutish, one red eye staring out of a permanent grimace. Its skin was dull grey all over, except for were red spirals coiled at the shoulder blades and knees. It was also deceptively fast.

The Hollow swung again this time raising its oversized fist to crash straight down on Art's head. This time, he was ready for it. Art dodged to the side and swung his black iron sword two handed like a baseball bat. It connected with a crunch, but failed to bite into the thick skin.

"Who taught you how to fight?" Rukia said admonishingly. "Your stance is all wrong!"

"I'm not taking a 'stance,'" Art answered. The Hollow attacked again and again. Its fists left shallow craters in the soft dirt just behind the middle school. Art ducked one; ducked the second, but the third pistoned in before he had regained his footing. The blow caught him in the stomach and he bounced back along the grass. Art raised his sword just in time to catch a fourth attack. The sword rattled painfully in his hands.

"That is the exact problem," Rukia said. She stepped back as Art levered his opponent backwards. The Hollow rolled backwards. Art followed it, swinging downwards towards its mask. The blow skittered off, instead burying itself in the monster's shoulder. The Hollow lashed out with a blind swing that sent Art scurrying back. The two faced each other again. "Who taught you how to fight?"

"Uh, no one," Art said. He jumped to the attack again and overswung, carrying himself past his opponent. The Hollow reeled for a second, momentarily confused by the maneuver. Its confusion was fatal. Art reversed the swing, bringing the blade across the back of its head. The sword drew a ragged line across the monster's mask. The Hollow's roar was cut short as it burst into vapour. "Look, I don't know what Power Ranger school you went to, but here in the land of the living; we get math, science, and English. Not so much on the sword fighting."

"The Spiritual Arts Academy in Soul Society had a very rigorous curriculum, not just fighting with a sword," Rukia replied crossly. She brushed the residual dust of the Hollow from the shoulders of her cardigan. "We'll have to address your lack of swordplay later. For now, we'll need to get you back to your body."

"Why," Art asked, suddenly worried. "Will I… die if I'm away from it for too long?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Rukia replied. She had reassumed her bubbly persona. "It's just that if we don't get back soon, you're going to miss even more classes."

"More classes! How many have I already missed!?"

* * *

Art muttered darkly to himself as he slunk into the school's ground level cafeteria to begin his study period. That ghost girl had somehow managed to slip herself into every single one of his classes; including the ones he had missed during their little jaunt to go fight the twelve foot Cyclops. And she'd kept up that ridiculous smiling façade the entire time too, even though through it all, Art could feel her sharpened gaze burrow into him every time she thought her new classmates weren't looking. Something told him that the time from now until the mysterious Rukia regained her powers and zipped off to wherever it was she came from were not going to be fun at all.

His miasmic fugue lifted somewhat when he reached his table. It was a good table, near enough to the back that teachers didn't prowl about it too often, distant enough from other tables that a conversation could get reasonably loud without drawing undue attention, yet close enough to the doors that you could make a swift exit and beat the rush of students trying to make their next class. That, of course, and that it currently held two of his favourite people in the world.

"Art, buddy," Sean gave his friend a welcoming wave. "Sam says you cut class, what gives?"

Art groaned. Leave it to Sam to tell on him. He wasn't likely to hear the end of this from either of them. On any other matter, he might have felt grateful that his friends were looking out for him, but what was he going to do about this situation? Kindly explain that he had cut class to fight monsters with the new transfer student?

"Yeah, Art, what gives?" a decidedly friendlier voice chimed in.

"Thanks a lot, Samantha," Art said wearily as he sat down across from the red-headed girl. "It was like, two classes _and lunch_; you didn't have to let Big Brother Nichols here know about it." He paused as something was pushed into his hand. He accepted it without thinking.

"That's Big Brother Nichols, Sir to you, you dirty skipper," Sean said "So, you gonna eat that or what?"

"Huh," Art looked down at the slice of pizza that had been pushed into his hand. He took a bite. "I thought I told you to stop feeding me like this." He took another bite.

"Well that's what you get for skipping lunch. So, go anywhere fun?" Sean leaned back in his chair and withdrew his well-worn binder. Art's doodle was still on top of the stack of loose papers just inside the cover.

"Uh, no, just over the road and back," Art admitted, though he wasn't going to say for what.

"What, to the middle school?" Sam asked.

"They got a park over there too, by the lake right? So, you took an hour off to feed the ducks or something, Art?" Sean butted in. "I get it, I'd skip old Comeau's class too, if I had her right before lunch. That reminds me; you got the Spanish notes, Sammy?"

The girl rolled her eyes but ultimately relented. She slid a neat packet of carefully scribed notes across the table. "I can't believe you're going so easy on him, Nichols. If I'd skipped two classes, you'd be all over my case."

"Course I would," Sean said with a grin, "I need your Spanish notes." He set about transcribing the neatly written lines into his own lazy script. Sam gave him a reproachful look and settled for watching him copy her notes, her chin resting on her open palm. The three sat in relative peace, the only sound the scribbling of Sean's pen.

"Say, Nichols. What's this?" Sam asked, obviously bored from the lack of conversation. She reached for a loose leaf of paper. "It sure looks scary, huh?" She lifted the image of the Hollow's skull mask.

"Oh, that thing. That's one of Art's 'ghost," Sean replied nonchalantly, "you know those stories he occasionally tells. Never knew he was such an artist though. Art Peveril, man of mysteries!" He snickered at his own joke.

"You sure have a warped imagination, huh Artie?" Sam giggled. "Geez, but this skull thing is creepy. You should draw nicer things if you're so good at art. Hah, Art the artist!"

"I wasn't trying to draw something like that," Art replied. "I just doodled it while I was day dreaming or something."

"Well I just wish I could draw this well while I was half asleep," Sam said with a snippy tone. "Like I would have time to daydream anyway, at least one of us has to be paying attention during class."

"Yeah," Sean said, "between taking notes for three and going to practice twenty seven hours a day, when does the great Captain Sportsball have time to relax enough to daydream?"

"I thought I told you not to call me that," Sam said, sticking her tongue out at the older boy.

"Why, aren't you the captain of the basketball team?" Sean said, signature smirk slipping into place below dancing eyes.

"First off, _acting_ Captain until Alyssa's ankle gets better; they don't just up and give the Captain's spot to a Freshman. Secondly, I told you not to call me 'Sportsball' anymore. I only do, like, two sports."

"Let's see," Sean said, raising a hand and starting to count off on his fingers, "We've got basketball, track and field, cross…"

"Cross country and Track shouldn't count as two," Sam said grumpily.

"…you did baseball back in middle school," Sean said as he continued to count. "Of course you also did bowling, and then there was the cheerleading. Am I leaving any out, Art?"

"You missed the wrestling," Art said.

"Yeah, and the wrestling. That's what, seven. Seven sports, many containing balls. Thus, Sportsball!" He made a magnanimous gesture as if bestowing a great and prestigious title. Sam shook her head, resigned to her fate. However, the awkward silence was broken. Art sat back in his chair and enjoyed the light conversation, for a time forgetting the name Rukia Kuchiki.

* * *

The mid-April sun slipped rapidly towards the hazy horizon, its smoky rays dancing off the tops of Worcester's seven hills to splash against Art's face. Not that he noticed, his head buzzed with a half dozen unfinished thoughts, chief of which, the sight that he now knew all too well. He shook his head as he walked along the roughly paved street.

The screaming ghost was still screaming from the mouth of the condemned building on the far side of the street. It gaped at him as he passed, tucked as close to the inside edge of the pavement. Its yowling yell seemed worse than the day before and was even starting to sound distressingly familiar. It rattled the chains that held it to the ground.

"Shut up, would you!" Art yelled at the seemingly empty building. A family of four hurried their pace as they passed him going the other way. "Now look what you've done," He muttered, looking very studiously ahead of him. "There's nothing I can do for you right now, I don't even know how to do that _konso_ thing." Art's admonition did nothing to stop the pained howls. Art shook his head. One of these days, he was going to come back up this street at guide that thing to its eternal rest _so hard_.

But not today. Today he would slink back home and try to pretend that the world wasn't full of monsters. Soul eating ones, at least. Just the regular demons a high schooler had to face; acne, sleep deprivation, and of course, heaps upon heaps of homework. The homework stung most of all, seeing as how he'd been denied a nights work. On the other hand, the math wasn't due until Friday…

Art puffed out his cheeks as the ghoulish sound of the trapped ghost fell further and further away. With luck that would be the last ghost he saw until morning. Art laughed caustically. If Arthur Peveril was lucky, he wouldn't have been able to see ghosts at all in the first place.

_Oh well, guess some things just can't be helped._ Art thought as he turned the familiar corner of Grove Street. Peveril Pharmacy sat perched between the two-family apartment and the multistory home. The lights in the all glass frontage were still glowing brightly, the small red 'Open' sign burning bright. Art smiled at the image of his mother helping the elderly Mr. Fredericks out the door. The old man waved goodbye as he started his long trek down to his ramshackle house on Salisbury Street. Art's mother's smile faded as the man disappeared into the slowly diminishing sunlight. The smile reappeared as her eyes fell on her son.

"Arthur, honey! Come on inside." She waved him on. "We didn't hear you come in last night, your sisters were getting so worried." She put a white smocked arm around his shoulders and hustled him through the door. She flipped the open sign from 'on' to 'off.' "That Sean Nichols didn't keep you up again, did he?"

"No, Mum, it wasn't Sean. I was held up helping the robotics team move some stuff. That's all."

"Oh, say no more," Janet Peveril said with a wink, patting her son on the back, "Lending your big strong muscles to help out that girl, what's her name… Hmm, tip of my tongue."

"It's not like that, Mum. My homeroom teacher's the coach; he was taking volunteers and offering extra credit with a few of the other science teachers…" He trailed off upon seeing his mother's self-satisfied smile and gave up on convincing her his two hours in the robotics lab was completely altruistic. He'd probably be more successful if he believed it himself. "Anyway, I've got a ton of homework to do; can we horrifically mortify me some other time?"

"Sure, honey. Just be sure to get dinner ready first. Today is your day to cook, remember? You better get started; you know how your sister gets when she gets hungry." His mother patted him on the back and sent him on up the stairs to the apartment on the second floor. "You go on ahead, now. I have to finish closing up."

Art clambered up the stairs and entered the small apartment. "I'm home," He called. Two voices answered, one high and clear, the other haughty and cool.

"Big brother! What took you so long? Janie is just about ready to start eating the sofa!" Said Lucy. Art ruffled his younger sister's long brown hair, earning him a long suffering look.

"Relax a little, baby sister. I'm getting to it. Tell Jane to toast a bagel or something if she's that hungry.

"Tell her yourself," Lucy answered stiffly. She whirled around and retreated to the bedroom she shared with the youngest Peveril sibling.

"I don't want a bagel!" Jane exclaimed, "I want your world famous chicken!" The twelve year old puffed out her cheeks and tried her hardest to shoot her older brother a stern look. Art ruffled her short, blonde hair too.

"Okay, Janie, just for you. Honestly, I don't know why you go so crazy over it; I'm just following a recipe." Art headed for the kitchen, youngest sister in tow. The girl jabbered excitedly as he began to pull ingredients from the shelf.

"It's not just meee," she exclaimed, "Lucy likes it too. She said it is her favourite food in the whole world. Wait, no, she said she hates it and that you should give all of hers to me!" Art smiled at the girl's excitement as he oiled the skillet.

"Whatever you say, Monkey."

* * *

Art collapsed bonelessly into his bed, exhausted. At long last, the weirdest day of his life was over. He looked across the room to the small desk were his half completed homework sat propped open. He looked away. There was always tomorrow. Today he would happily pass out and leave all thoughts of homework, ghosts, and Hollows behind. Or at least he would try. Outside in the hall, Lucy was arguing with her younger sister about something. Art didn't really have the energy to intercede between the two the way he usually would when his mother got caught up in her work, so he let the two bicker. Something about missing clothes. Art didn't really care, though he wished they'd just get their fight over with so he could drift off to sleep.

He was just about to roll himself out of bed and go tell them to keep it down when he heard something. There was a soft ringing coming from somewhere in his room. At first he thought he was getting a call from someone, until he realized it was almost completely unlike his own ringtone. He listened intently, following the sound to his in-wall cupboard. He reached for the door, his curiosity temporarily overriding his trepidation.

The door burst open.

* * *

Captain Sosuke Aizen knelt at his low desk, carefully scribing a letter with a fine-nibbed pen. He allowed himself a small smile. Everything was falling into place, the building blocks nudged carefully, slowly. Soon the plan would be ready to bear fruit. Aizen carefully blotted the letter. It was a true masterpiece of manipulative language, subtle as a knife, powerful as kido. As much as the Captain of the Third Court Guard Division enjoyed playing his opponents with the powerful illusions provided by Kyoka Suigetsu, he truly relished making his pawns dance with nothing more than the written word. He rolled the parchment and placed it up his sleeve for safe keeping. This little dagger would require perfect timing to take full effect. There was a knock at his office door.

"Come in," Aizen said with a carefully modulated tone. He smiled as one of his fellow Captains pulled back the sliding door. "Ah, Captain Ukitake. What can I do for you today?"

The sickly Captain smiled at him from behind long white hair. "Captain Aizen, I hope the day finds you well. I came to deliver this report on the recent events in Karakura, Japan. I believe you were talking to my Third Seats about it the other day."

Aizen kept his face an impassive mask. He would have to step carefully on this one; the Captain would be much harder to talk around than his youthful subordinates. Inwardly, Aizen found himself ever so slightly irritated that the two co-seaters couldn't keep the information he wanted to themselves.

"Oh? Yes, I think I recall mentioning something about the town to them at the meeting the other day. You didn't have to come all the way to the Third's barracks yourself though. I would be inconsolable if you somehow aggravated your condition on my account," His honeyed words seemed to put the other captain at ease.

"Oh, I'm sure I have at least one trip from the Thirteenth to here in me. Besides, I think you'll find this report quite intriguing.

"Intriguing, hmm," Aizen took the proffered roll of parchment. "Karakura Town. Didn't you just transfer one of your young Shinigami there? What was her name? The Kuchiki girl, wasn't it?" Aizen unrolled the report.

"My, my, Sosuke. Are you usually so well informed about the goings on of the other Divisions? You are right about the Kuchiki girl recently taking a post in the Living World recently. You're half right; she almost did draw the Karakura post. Young Kotetsu was quite adamant that she get it, now that I think on it. But no, a situation with the Fifteenth's Worcester post vacancy came up. I loaned Kuchiki to Captain Mors for a month's span. Zennosuke is the current guardian of District 3600."

"What?" Aizen barely caught his shocked outburst in time, tempering it into an indifferent question. "Ah, yes, so it says right here." Aizen's eyes widened very slightly as he scanned the page's neat script. "Thank you for bringing this to me, Captain. And send my regards to the Kuchiki girl. It is not every day the Scion of one of the great houses takes her first assignment."

"I will, as soon as we get in touch with her. You know how these young ones are? They get a look at the living world and suddenly the filing of reports falls by the wayside." The Captain of the Thirteenth Division bid his counterpart a cheerful farewell. As the door slid shut, Aizen grasped the report in both hands, reading intently.

_The foolish… I should have known better than to entrust a stepping stone this important to mere Co-third seaters. _Aizen composed himself. _No matter, a slight misstep._ It had taken many years to filter the up and coming Academy students to find just the right combination of factors. And now he'd lost his carefully selected lure. He carefully rolled the report and allowed himself another smile. He would find another, if that was what it took. He'd waited this long. He'd have to discard Rukia Kuchiki, but then again, the intel contained in this report was worth the loss of such a minor factor.

_So, a player I thought long gone has reentered the game, _he thought to himself, _Isshin Kurosaki._

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_A very dialogue heavy chapter this time, I'm afraid. Hopefully it isn't too terrible. Question for all of you fine readers though. The fight scenes, what do you think? THis being Bleach, fight scenes are going to grow to be quite pivotal, especially as the story progresses. Let me know what you think. Good description, bad description? Does it need more, or less? Is it clear enough? Drop a review and let me know! _

_On another note, you may have noted some small inconsistencies in the Division structure in that last section. This is intentional on my part. Let's just say that Soul Society will look quite different, if and when Art reaches it. Hope you enjoyed reading._

_-Liddle Out_


	4. Chapter 4

Swords of the West

Arc I: Inductions and Introductions

Chapter 4: Dearly Departed, Part I

Art dragged himself up to the glass frontage of his family's small neighborhood pharmacy. Behind him stalked the slightly ruffled gigai temporary body that harboured Art's impromptu mentor and tormentor-in-chief, depowered _shinigami_ Rukia Kuchiki. Art was trying very hard to ignore the involuntary spasm that ran up his right side every time he took a step.

"Well, that could have gone better," he said, glumly. He could almost hear the diminutive soul reaper set her jaw. Thankfully, she kept her sharp comments to herself. Art doubted his luck would hold out once they got inside. The two turned the corner into the blind alley that separated the pharmacy from the neighboring buildings and leapt vertically, first onto the thin ledge than ran along the outside, then in through Art's open window. Rukia alighted gracefully on the single bed. Art… not so much. "Alright, let me have it," he said with a dejected sigh. He rolled himself over until he sat with his back to his mattress.

"Well, it is clear now that you were truthful when you said that you had absolutely no training whatsoever," Rukia said calmly, "Clearly, it will be up to me to train you, as the far superior sword user." Art couldn't help but roll his eyes at the girl's superior tone. She might have looked roughly his age, but she talked like she was old enough to be his mother. "Otherwise, yes, it could have gone better."

"I guess I can live with that," Art said. He relaxed visibly. It sent a twinge through his battered ribs.

"Not for long if you keep fighting like that," Rukia murmured. Art shot her a sharp look. "But your training can wait until tomorrow. I don't foresee too many more Hollow attacks in the near future. This part of the world isn't supposed to be particularly spiritually active. Now rest up, because I won't go easy on you!" Rukia hopped into the cupboard and slid the wooden door behind her.

"Uh, we're going to have to have a chat eventually about you living in my closet," Art called through the door. Rukia made a dismissive noise from within. "Also, you can't just go stealing my sister's clothes all the time." Rukia was silent. "You know whatever. Sweet dreams princess. See you in the morning," Art turned his back on the wooden door and stared blankly at the limp body that lay splayed across his bed. "Now, how do I get back inside this thing…"

* * *

The high pitched bell rang, signaling the start of another day at St. Peter-Marian. Sean Nichols ignored it, as did almost every other student in the crowded cafeteria. True veterans of the high school knew enough to wait until the second bell to begin shuffling off to class. Sean looked at his watch. Right on time, less than a minute before second bell, Art stumbled into the room. He looked dead tired, an expression Sean knew well enough from his own mirror. He was also walking with an oddly stiff gait, as if not in total control of his body's limbs.

"Look who's on time today," Sean offered his friend a sarcastic golf clap. "You okay, kiddo? You look like I feel after pulling a double shift at the double Ds." Art sat down, not even reacting to his least favourite nickname. Sean felt his eyebrows rise. "Anyone in there?"

Art looked up, his face a strange mix of apologetic and cross. The stress resolved itself into a friendly, if sleepy looking smile.

"Oh, sorry. Rough night, not much sleep. I…," the boy gave a half covered yawn. "Sorry. I didn't miss the bell, did I?"

"Would my lazy ass be sitting here if you had?" Sean asked. "You got time. Care to partake of the finest in last night's doughnuts?" Sean slid the orange and brown box across the blue table surface.

"No. I'm fine, thanks," Art said. His hand reached into the box regardless, selecting a slightly squished bear claw. He stuffed it into his mouth as the second bell rang. "Ughh nuff…" He swallowed forcefully. "You said I had time!"

"I didn't say how much," Sean answered. He scooped up the box and flipped the lid closed. "I gotta take these up to His Holiness. You run on now, I can work my magic on ol' Belushko, but Madame is a whole different animal. See you at lunch?"

"Yeah," Art said distractedly. He peered around as if looking for someone. "Yeah, I'll be there. So don't go buying me anything. Lunch is my treat today!"

"Uh huh. Whatever you say, man," Sean said. He was already counting out the bills shoved in his back pocket. Enough for two slices of pizza, a coke, and a cup of the finest bubbler water. "Just don't go skipping any classes today, got it?"

"Yeah, whatever, pops," Art shot back.

"You better watch that smart mouth or imam have to hit you, boy," Sean said. He made extra effort to roll out the o in boooy. Art pushed himself to his feet with a slightly wobbly arm and clambered up and out of the seat. Sean watched him shamble zombie-fashion up the half stairs and out into the hallway quizzically. He scratched at the scruff that permanently inhabited his chin.

_And what's gotten into him?_

Exactly what had gotten into his best friend was still unclear as early morning rapidly slid towards midday. Sean watched the tall youngster carefully during the few classes they shared. He seemed strained somehow. Almost twitchy. He was still looking for something, or someone. His eyes flicked to the door, or out of the window. Once or twice, he just froze, as if he had heard something. The first time had just been a particularly growly truck, but the second time Sean didn't hear anything at all.

The question plagued the stout freshman all the way to their late lunch just past one o'clock. Sean moseyed into the packed cafeteria with a smug grin plastered across his face. A quick check revealed Art not to be in attendance.

_When will that kid learn?_ He thought to himself. He whistled as he slid into line and shot a wink at the lunch staff. They smiled wearily back, throwing together his usual order before he reached the register. He paid with a smile and strode towards his usual table. He made idle chatter with a few friends along the way, made plans to hang out after school before he was due in to work, threw a loose salute to pretty sophomore on the cheer squad. But though it all, he kept an eye out for Art.

_Still no sign of the kid, eh? Maybe he did skip after all. Ah, Sammie's here…_

* * *

While Sean was peering out across the cafeteria, Art stood calmly on the grass out behind the school, covered by the shadow of the football field bleachers. Or, at least, he was standing as calmly as he could manage in the presence of his current talking companion.

"Where have you been all day, Rukia?" He asked, failing to mask his general sense of grouchiness. "Just showing up now, you're not taking this whole cover story very seriously."

"First off," Rukia replied as she raised a finger to cut the boy off, "You shouldn't address me so informally while we're at school. You wouldn't want to give people the wrong idea." Heat rose in Art's face at that comment. It seemed only to egg the girl on. "Second, we both know that you are in serious need of training. You can't expect me to train you well enough to my job without me stepping out for a few supplies, can you?"

"No," Art relented, "You still could have told me though. What if I had needed to go into soul form to fight a Hollow? I'm pretty sure I heard one earlier today." Art looked over his shoulder as if one of the masked monsters was sneaking up on him at that very moment.

"Then I would have known to come back, of course. Caution is important in a _shinigami_, but paranoia is not a useful tool. You'll only wear yourself out," Rukia intoned, very sagely in voice and manner. She put both thumbs on the front of her grey cardigan as if to pluck at the folds of an invisible suitcoat.

"You get that off of a fortune cookie?" Art said. Rukia ignored him, instead reaching into the book bag that hung at her waist. She withdrew a small leather bound booklet and flipped through it frantically for a brief second. Art idly noticed that she was reading it back to front. Rukia closed the book with a snap and tucked it quickly into her breast pocket.

"As I was saying, it is clear that you need training." Her voice was laced with an uneasy authority. "I was going to run an exercise with the pitching machine over there, but I've decided that with you, I will have to go back right to the very beginning. So prepare yourself, because for the rest of the lunch hour, you will learn your first sword _kata!_"

* * *

Sean managed to sneak out of the double doors facing the athletic fields without being noticed, a skill he had carefully cultivated since his early days at St. Peter-Marian. The spare slice of pizza had gotten cold waiting for its intended, so Sean had allowed Joe to polish it off. He'd used the distraction to give his curly coifed companion the slip, and now he was here. He usually didn't come out here during school hours, but today was heating up to be just one of those days.

He strode nonchalantly to the empty bleachers. It was a nice private spot, or so he thought, perfect for his intended purpose. It wasn't until he had almost rounded the corner, slapping his pockets as he whistled a jaunty tune, that he heard the voices.

One, feminine seemed equal parts irritated athletics coach and scolding mother. The other, Sean knew all too well. The voices were indistinct, but the very idea of _little Artie_ sneaking out here with a girl… Sean stopped in his tracks and had to bite down on a knuckle to stop from sniggering. He stealthily popped his head around the corner. There stood Art, looking a little sweatier than usual. Right up behind him was a dark haired girl that Sean didn't recognize. Her hands gripped the much taller boy's elbow.

Sean gave her another look, playing with the gold chain around his neck while he tried to figure out her identity. She certainly didn't look like she was from around here. It clicked into place. The new transfer, talk was that she was Japanese or something. That fit about right.

"Smooth going, Peveril," Sean muttered to himself, "Didn't know you had it in you." _Especially since that debacle with whoeshername. The one on the robotics team._

"I still don't see the point of this," Artie was saying. "I mean, I'm just waving my hands about. Wouldn't it be better if I just, you know, drew my sword?"

The girl had a quick retort. "Definitely not. There'll be no drawing your sword until you get much better with your hand work. As it is, you'd just be swinging it around like an amateur. You're liable to put an eye out, mine or yours!"

"Well I just don't think it's worth learning the moves if I don't have the proper weight in my hand is all," Art retorted. Sean shook his head. His friend clearly still had a lot to learn about women.

_And did she just say something about his hand work?_

"I thought you said you wanted to learn sword play. Maybe you should just shut up and listen to those with far more experience than you," the girl said snippily. She let go of the elbow and turned her nose up in the air. Sean's eyebrow peaked inquisitively.

"If you're so experienced, then why'd you lose to that monster you were tackling that night I met you, huh?" Sean's eyebrow rose a little higher.

"I had that thing properly handled. It's not my fault that you jumped in front of me and took it on without being fully prepared." Sean's eyebrow crashed upwards through his hairline. He stifled a cough. The girl was shaking her head. Behind her back, she slipped on a blue and red glove. "But fine, let's ignore two thousand years of carefully prepared training. Draw your sword, Arthur Peveril!" She slammed he gloved hand into Art's forehead. Sean's friend went completely limp.

"Holy shit!" Sean failed to stifle the outburst. The exchange student's head whipped around and pale violet eyes locked onto him. Her lips became a thin pressed line. Her head cocked to the side slightly, as if she was listening to something.

Those eyes rooted Sean to the spot and came crashing through his usual calm veneer. The girl was still listening to whatever it was, but her body coiled as if to make a lunging strike.

"No, I don't care how much you think you know him, we can't let him remember us together." The girl said. She waited for a response. "I don't know how much he heard. But if he heard the part about fighting the Hollows…"

Sean managed to choke out a few words. "Fighting… Hollows? What…"

The girl didn't give him time to finish his statement. She pulled something out of a bag. Even from a distance, Sean could pick out the shape of a lighter. Then, with a sudden blur of motion, the girl was right in front of him. The lighter clicked once.

Art watched on invisibly, a shocked expression on his face.

"What did you do to him?" He shouted. He took a step towards his friend but Rukia raised a stern hand. "He's not…"

"He hasn't been harmed," Rukia said as she knelt beside the toppled boy. Despite her assertions, she reached to take his pulse. "I have altered his short term memory. He won't remember seeing you separate from your body, or remember us talking about Hollows. His mind will come up with a replacement that he will find plausible."

"You've Neuralized him?"

"I do not know what you mean. I told you, I have altered his memories. Don't worry, the process is usually harmless." She pulled the small lighter away from Sean's face. A small bird head bobbled on a spring. Rukia popped it back into its enclosure. "We should get you back into your body before he wakes up. I do not want to replace the same memories too many times."

* * *

The presence watched from the rooftop of St. Peter-Marian as students began to stream out, as it had done every day since September. It watched the students move, so vibrant, so full of life. It watched them talk, but it didn't listen. They weren't _him_. The presence continued its invisible vigil until it spotted _him_. He stepped from the building at the very end of the crowd of students, laughing his easy laugh. The presence watched his face break out into a goofy grin. He looked happy. The presence knew better. It had watched him from the dark when he thought no one could see him. The lie he was forced to put on for all his selfish friends made its heart ache. Its heart ached _so_ much. So much it could just scream.

Two students nearby looked up with concerned looks on their faces. The presence hid itself peeking out just enough to get a look at them. One was old. The presence knew him. The other was new. The presence was curious. It kept up its watch as _he_ continued walking towards the road.

Far below, those being watched were talking.

"How are you feeling?" Art asked his friend. "That bump you got on your head looked pretty nasty."

"Yeah, I know, right? I don't even know why I would try to scale the bleachers all by myself." Art gave a nervous glance to the girl who walked just aside and behind him. She gave a gentle shake of the head.

"Yeah, totally weird," Art said. "Hey, will you be free to hang out this weekend?"

"Nah, you know me. Gotta work through the weekend," Sean's smile flickered. He passed it off as a cough.

"Alright then," Art said. "Don't go working yourself to death." The transfer student tapped Art on the arm. He brushed her off and waited for Sean's response.

"Well don't wait around for me. I gotta get to work. Zug zug."

* * *

A light wind stirred the reeds that grew along the muddy banks of Indian Pond. Beside the still water, a raven haired girl sat cross legged, her eyes focused intently on an empty spot of air. Beside her, a boy lay motionless with his hands tucked behind his head. Or so it might have looked to the average passerby.

"Keep your arms up!" Rukia called out. She slipped the small book from her pocket and flipped a few pages. "Watch where you put your feet. These moves should be smooth and graceful. Don't just lumber through them!"

"Ease up a little, won't you?" Art bit back. Regardless, he drew in a deep breath and set his feet. Holding his sword out before him, he began the motions Rukia had shown him. With their flowing steps and slow, sweeping movements of the sword, these _kata_ seemed closer to a dance routine than any kind of practical sword training. Then again, the Soul Reaper had said she possessed a good few decades of experience on him, despite her youthful appearance, so who knew. Perhaps there was something to the…

"What are you doing, staring off into space like that; keep your focus on your blade."

Of course, it would likely go better if he had a friendlier teacher. "I am focused," He called back. He started again, taking the stance, bowing, 'drawing his sword.' This time he did his best to follow its movements through the air. The sun glinted off the silver white exposed veins in the already dented and pitted surface. Art's brow furrowed as he contemplated the state of his weapon.

When it had first manifested, it had been roughly finished. Now it looked like it was actively decaying, especially around the small chips taken out of the edge by his repeated sword strikes. He swung the sword about his head, preparing to make the transition from the first set of motions to the second and nearly dropped it. He could have sworn he'd seen a face in the blur of dark metal.

He ran through the final steps and replaced the sword at his waist. He looked up. Rukia was watching him intently. "So? How'd I do?"

"Your moves are still unrefined," the soul reaper said, "but your hold, at least, is improving. Let's call it a day for now. I will meet you back at your house." She snapped the little book closed and slipped it back into its place. The girl turned quickly and took off down the road. Art watched her go.

* * *

Sean stumped into his third story apartment, casting aside his brown and orange slave collar. It was a nice enough apartment, or at least it had been. The outside remained almost pristine but inside was long due for some tender loving care. Sadly, all of Sean's loving care was all used up, had been for years. He dropped his weekly paycheck on top of the folded pile of bills that would swallow it whole and ran his fingers through greasy hair.

"Ma, I'm home!" He called, not expecting an answer. His keys went in the dish set up beside the door. He slapped down his pockets and fished out the pack of illicit smokes. The green Newport boxes were just about the only thing his mother left the house for these days. Sean lit up and relished the first hot gulp of smoke. He no longer coughed between puffs. He closed the front window shutters against the rapidly growing gloom.

"Ma, I got a couple of sandwiches if you want 'em," He dropped the brown paper bag on the dining room table and sat down at one of the rickety chairs. He sighed and picked his schoolbag up of the floor. He picked through his beaten up green binder, carefully selecting from the reams of copied notes. His eyes flicked to the clock that hung above the mantelpiece, right between the framed pictures of his dad and baby sister. One of the frames was crooked.

Sean frowned. Of all the myriad chores that called, ignored, for his attention, there was one that he never let slide. He left the notes on the table and stalked over to the tilted frame. He ran his thumb over the worn cork wood. His sister smiled out of the glass at him. He tilted the frame back into place.

He returned to the table. It was going to take a whole lot of midnight oil to turn the jumble of words and diagrams into a week's worth of late assignments. He felt a slight tremor run through the table as he picked up his pen. He looked around before his eyes fell back onto the worn picture frame. It was tilted again, and the larger picture of his dad, resplendent in WPD dress uniform had joined it. He got up again, arm already outstretched to fix the tilted pictures.

He stopped suddenly. He could have sworn he heard the lightest whisper, right behind him. He whirled around. There was no sound in the apartment besides the chattering of late night talk show hosts in the next room. There was a tinkle of glass back against the wall. Sean looked down at his own feet.

Sarah's picture had fallen squarely between his raggedy white sneakers. The glass was cracked. He bent to pick it up. The picture scooted across the floor away from him. Sean backed away, pressing his back to the wall.

"What the actual fuck?" Sean exclaimed. Stuff like this wasn't supposed to happen. There was a rush of air just behind his ear, as if something had zoomed past. Sean's eyes peered about the dusty room, searching for anything that might be moving things around. Nothing. The room remained absolutely still. "Hey. Is anyone there?" Whatever was out there answered by rushing around Sean's head again. It left a trail of whispers that chilled Sean to the bone. "He… hello?"

_This was stupid. This was impossible. Stuff didn't just move by itself. It can't be…_ The unnatural wind skipped merrily across the dining room table. Papers went flying. A sheet fluttered through the air until it landed at Sean's feet, lying across the shattered portrait. _Artie's mask_. Images flashed back before Sean's eyes.

_Art and that new transfer student standing together behind the school bleachers. Words… Something about fighting monsters._

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Sean muttered weakly. Whatever was in the room knocked the dining room table over. Sean's hand went for his cell phone.

* * *

Art slammed his head down onto his desk and groaned. Why'd he always have to let it pile up like this? Beside him sat the pile of work to be completed. It was much shorter than it had been that morning, but it was still far from over. Behind him, Rukia sat atop her neatly folded sleeping bag with an open comic book in her lap.

"If you're going to treat your training the same way you treat your homework, maybe I should find someone else to take over for me. You don't know anyone else who might be handy with a sword, do you?" Art ignored the jab. He flipped the page of his math book and scratched out the next question onto paper. He was so tired his eyes were crossing. One of these days he would get this done before the night before it was due.

"And what, you never pulled an all-nighter at that power ranger academy of yours?"

"No," Rukia said shortly, "I was always a model student," She flipped another page of whatever she was reading.

"Well, model student, have you started your own homework yet? If you want to maintain that cover of yours, you're going to have to turn in some work every week," Art turned in his chair to face the girl in his cupboard. "And… wait, I didn't have any comic books back there, what are you reading?"

"Nothing," Rukia unceremoniously stuffed whatever it was into the dark green sleeping bag. "Why don't you focus on your own work, and I will focus on mine."

"Oh, I see. You were planning on just copying my work," Art said. Rukia's aside glance confirmed his suspicions. "I can't…" Art was cut off by his own ringtone. He fished it from his pocket and brought it to his ear, Rukia temporarily forgotten. "Yes?"

"Hey man, it's Sean," Art's eyes sharpened. Sean's breathing was sharp and shallow. He sounded panicked and scared. From the edge in his voice, he might also have been hurt.

"Sean, what's going on?" Art asked. He waved off a frantic gesture from Rukia.

"I don't… I don't know, man. Stuff's moving around on its own. I think…. I think it's one of your, you know, one of your gh…" His voice cut off sharply. Art was left sitting in his chair, a little in shock. "What?" he said, his eyes flicking back up to Rukia. She was standing now, her small pink phone extended.

"Hollow."

Art was out of the window and pounding the sidewalk almost before his spirit was done leaving its mortal shell. Rukia's gigai dropped down behind him.

"Wait, this Hollow's signature is behaving strangely. It wavers, sometimes barely there, somtimes a lot stronger than the Hollows that you've fought before. With your current level of training, perhaps you should…"

"Should what, Rukia? Sit this one out and wait for my friend to get his soul eaten?" Art put on a burst of speed. Out of his, frankly not in the best shape, body, he felt he could sprint for miles.

"I wasn't going to say…" Rukia puffed as she struggled to keep up. "What I wanted to say was that you should let me help you in this fight." The two of them turned the corner onto the main road.

"As much as I'd love some backup, didn't you just lose your powers? What exactly are you going to do against an angry Hollow?"

"I still have a handful of my kido spells. They're still weak, and they'll require their full chant to do any real damage, but the right distraction at the right time…"

"Okay, it's a deal," Art said after giving it a moment's thought. But stay behind me, okay. We should keep my sword between us and any pointy teeth, right?"

"Right," Rukia replied. She seemed genuinely surprised to have her offer accepted. They ran towards Sean's apartment at breakneck pace. The dark streets of Worcester flashed past in the deepening gloom. Art led them on, taking first a left, a right, straight across an intersection and right through a small clump of disorientated college kids. The familiar shape of Sean's small apartment appeared out of the gloom. The windows were shattered. Art took the expedient of jumping through the jagged panes instead of knocking.

Sean was kneeling down before the ghostly form of a woman, gaunt and pale. His body lay splayed at an odd angle next to him, connected by a tenuous chain. Her long hair looked grey and lanky. Her chest was punctured by a hole only half covered by a bent and tortured metal plate. Only one abraded link of chain hung from the whole assembly.

Sean turned towards his fried with tears streaming from his eyes. He spoke with a choked voice.

"Artie… It's Sarah."

* * *

Author's Note:

These chapters are coming out a lot faster than I expected. Hopefully, the quality isn't suffering for it. So, here towards the start, I am going to end up hitting one or two points along the Stations of the Canon. However, I do have the first couple of arcs plotted out now. I also have the final chapter written up, so now this story has both a course, and a destination. Hope to meet you all there. Now for some reviewer responses.

flamehog: Thanks for the review, I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. Hopefully I can continue providing a fresh character for you and the other readers. As for Ichigo and the gang, they're still out there. What kind of effect they'll have on this story, you'll have to wait and see.

Ndasuunye: Well, Boston/NYC rivalry aside, I'm glad that you see promise in this little story of mine. Now, hopefully you'll stick around to see the differences grow between Art and Ichigo. It's up to you though. Also, while i did go to school in Worcester, I am a native of Cheshire, England. Anyway, thanks for reviewing.

-Liddle Out


	5. Chapter 5

Swords of the West

Arc I: Welcome to Worcester

Chapter 5: Dearly Departed, Part II

* * *

A new chapter here,

Needs a certain something, yes,

Why not a _haiku?_

* * *

"_Sean, I was sick again." Sean woke up with a start, wiping sleep-stuck eyes as he looked blearily towards the light spilling through his open bedroom door. The blurry silhouette resolved itself as he swiped at the last vestiges of crust from his eyes. His little sister stood at the gap between door and jamb, peering around the whitewashed wood tremulously. "I got it in the toilet this time." His younger sister smiled weakly._

"_Are you going to be okay?" Sean asked; his voice still thick in his throat. He shook his head to try and dispel some of its fuzziness. Sarah nodded slowly but her face was still drawn and pale. Her dark blonde hair, usually shining and glossy, was plastered to her head and stuck out at odd angles. She wiped some trace of detritus off her chin self-consciously. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up." Sean pushed himself out of bed and padded across the grey-green carpet to put an arm around his sister's shoulders. He ignored the sour smell of her nightshirt and led her into the kitchen. She plodded along glumly beside him, casting a glance aside as they passed the closed door of their parent's room._

"_I knocked, but Mum was asleep," she said, answering the unasked question that hung in the air. Inwardly, Sean didn't believe that she had knocked at all, not that it would have changed anything. He flicked on the light as the two of them entered the scant kitchen. It cast a cheery orange glow on the room. "I'm sorry I woke you up. Mum says big girls are supposed to take care of themselves."_

_Sean reached up to grab a short glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. He pressed it into his sister's hand. She grimaced as she sipped the tepid water. "Don't worry about it. I mean, you're not even eleven yet. Basically a baby."_

"_Am not," Sarah said, forgetting her ills for a moment to stick her tongue out at her older brother. Sean dabbed at the offending tongue with the corner of a damp cloth. The girl screwed up her face and punched her brother lightly in the shoulder. Sean ignored her jabs and wiped gently at her chin._

"_Are too. Now stay still, you big baby. We've got school in the morning. You don't want the other kids making fun of you, do you?" He continued to wipe away the evidence of his sister's illness. She had ceased struggling against the damp cloth, instead content to simply sit on the tall chair and take sips of warm water between swipes of the flannel._

"_But Sean, the other kids already make fun of me. They're so mean!" A small tear beaded at the corner of Sarah's eye. The sight of it made Sean's blood boil. "Sean," the girl said with quavering lips._

"_Yes, Sarah?"_

"_I wish Dad was here."_

"_Me too, Sarah. Me too." Sean didn't cry anymore._

* * *

The ghost-like figure hung in the air over Sean's motionless body. Sean's own ghostly eyes flicked from the body, to the figure, back to the body. He tried to scoot back, away from his own still likeness. Something tugged at his chest, arresting his escape attempt. Sean grabbed at his chest and found cold, gleaming metal poking out of him, connected by rivets to a spindly chain that rattled limply in his hand. Every breath became difficult to draw, the air suddenly feeling altogether too thin.

"Sean," The ghost spoke in a little girl's voice and shimmered as it moved closer. "Is that how you greet your dearly departed little sister? After all this time? I'd have thought you'd be happier to see me."

Sean's eyes widened. "No. You're not… Sarah?" He stopped trying to shuffle away from the figure. "Sarah's dead. I don't know what you are."

"Just like you said, big brother. Dead."

"Don't call me that!" Sean yelled. He struggled to stand up, but in the too thin air he barely had the strength to rise to his knees. The shade lifted lightly up and away from him on an invisible breeze with an unearthly, thin smile pressed onto almost translucent lips. Sean swatted at her anyway. His movements felt slow and lumbering and the exertion of making them drove a painful wedge into his chest. He collapsed back on his heels and looked at the ghost through bleary eyes. "What do you want from me?"

The ghost laughed. A tiny, high, and girlish giggle, yet devoid of warmth. But even without the cheerful touches of life, that laugh was unmistakable. His sister's ghost floated in front of him, gaunt and pale as the day he had said goodbye to her in her corner room of Worcester Medical Center. The image wobbled as something came between his eyes and the apparition. Sean swiped at his face and his hand came away wet. He vaguely registered the crunching of glass behind him as something landed heavily on the shards of his broken windows.

Very slowly, Sean forced himself to turn his head and look behind. A tall, scrawny guy had jumped in through the second story window wielding a big ugly blade. A girl followed him, also alighting on the shining slivers of glass. Where the guy wore what looked like something out of the middle ages, she was wearing the skirt and blazer of a St. Peter-Marian's school uniform. It took a few ticks of Sean's brain to realize who he was looking at. _Art._ A handful of questions ran through his head in quick succession. _What was he doing here? What was he wearing? What was the new transfer student doing with him?_ All those questions, but only one thing made it past his suddenly dry mouth.

"Artie… It's Sarah."

Sean's friend looked back at him, then past him. A shiver seemed to move through the arms that gripped the sword as his eyes slipped across the grey shade. The thinly pressed line of Art's lips shook with a slight tremor.

Outside of his own family, Art was one of the few who knew that Sean had even had a sister. But even Art didn't know the full story.

* * *

"_I'm very sorry, Mrs. Nichols. Are you sure you don't want your kids to wait outside for this?" the doctor said. Her voice was quiet, clinical. It matched the room. Sean swung his legs under the too-tall chair as silence swallowed up the woman's words. Beside him, his mother sat with dull eyes looking straight through the woman's pressed white coat. He nudged his mother gently. Linda Nichols muttered with a start._

"_No, no. They're good kids. They can stay." The words tumbled out listlessly. The eyes remained unfocused. The doctor gave her a curious look, but continued regardless._

"_All right, Mrs. Nichols. I'm afraid your daughter's condition has advanced quite a bit further than we previously thought."_

_Beside Sean, his sister stifled a sniff. Sean gripped her small hand with his own, the interlocked fingers swaying in time with his legs. Up on the wall, the clocked ticked with unnatural loudness to his ears. His legs picked up the tempo. Back and forth, back and forth._

"_Mrs. Nichols, I'm afraid that in your daughter's case this condition will likely be terminal. Now, we have some medicine..."_

"_Terminal." His mother spoke in the same unfocused tone. It wasn't a question, just a disconnected word, devoid of context as soon as it tumbled from her mouth. Sean scowled and looked away. Beside him, Sarah gasped._

"_Yes," the doctor leaned forward and spoke in her fakey bake concerned doctor voice. "I know this is hard to hear, Mrs. Nichols. If you need a moment." No response. "As I was saying, there is a new medication that my peers and I believe might alleviate the worst of her symptoms. With an aggressive enough treatment plan, we hope that she might even be able to get ahead of this disease."_

"_Can't afford it," Sean's mother said with the first true pang of emotion since shuffling into the blindingly white office._

"_Excuse me?"_

"_These meds, you said they were new, right? That means they're expensive. Way too expensive to cover with just my husband's pension. Thank you for your time, Doctor Carter." His mother rose from her seat with such surprising force that the chair rocked on its two back legs before stuttering back to the ground. Sean's eyes snapped up to his mother's face. Her jaw was set firmly, eyes filled with the old presence of mind that had been so commonplace before that night that John Nichols had climbed into his police cruiser with three other officers and never returned. "Come on, kids. We're going to go home."_

_His mother left the room. Sarah followed her mother with her head hung low. Once again tears flowed from her eyes. Each one of the hot drops of water felt like a stinging blow as far as Sean was concerned. He stayed slumped in his seat. The doctor shook her head sadly and puffed out her cheeks. She let out her held breath in a long sigh and returned her eyes to her desk. She scribbled something on a pad stuck to her wide, dark wooden desk._

"_So, Doc," Sean said slowly. The woman nearly jumped out of her skin. She muttered something incredibly uncharitable as she pushed a pair of thin glasses up her slender nose._

"_Young man, what are you still doing here? Run along. Your mother will be getting worried."_

"_My Ma doesn't get worried about much of anything these days," Sean replied. His legs still swayed in time to the ticking of the clock and his eyes remained cast at the flashing tips of his toes as they dashed in and out of the shadow of his chair. "She's worried about Sarah, though."_

"_Well," the doctor replied, "your sister's situation is very serious. And without her medication…"_

"_We'll take the medicine," Sean burst out suddenly._

"_Mister Nichols…"_

"_Look, I know what my Ma said, but I don't think she's thinking things through straight, you know? At least let me take what you wrote down to her. Maybe she'll change her mind."_

_The doctor's stern expression softened slightly and she pushed a lanky lock of dark brown hair behind her ear. "Alright," she said. "Here, take this prescription to your mother."_

_Sean snatched the small square of paper from her hands before she had even finished speaking and tucked it close to his chest. A small smile broke past his grim scowl and he tipped his eyes up to look the lady doctor in the eyes. "Thanks. Thanks a whole bunch, Doc." The woman nodded and made a little 'shoo, shoo' motion with her hand._

_Sean shooed._

* * *

Arthur strengthened the two-handed grip he held on his sword, keeping it pointed ahead of him. He tried desperately not to meet his kneeling friend in the eye. Instead he kept his eyes on the form that floated in front of the Nichols' family portraits. He tried to whisper a question to the soul reaper behind him.

"Can he see us?" The question sounded stupid as soon as it passed his lips. Rukia was kind enough to only give him a disbelieving glare, rather than the dope slap he surely deserved."

"He just spoke to you, you fool," She said. Her own eyes gave the ghost an analytical once over. "This whole is on the verge of succumbing to encroachment. That would explain the inconsistent _reiatsu _readings. Now, I suggest you perform the _konso_ as quickly as possible. It will be much easier to clean up this situation before she turns, rather than after."

"This situation?" Art asked. His eyes were still locked on the ghost of his best friend's sister. "How can you say that? That's his sister."

"It shouldn't matter to you. As a substitute Soul Reaper, you have a duty to be impartial and fair to all of the dead. Whether they are some stranger on the street or your own sister, it is your job to send them to the afterlife, by choice or by force. That is what you agreed to."

"Hey," Sean spoke up. His voice was rough and ragged. For the first time, Art met him in the eye. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I don't even know what's really going on here. All I know is that my sister is here, and you plan on sending her away. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Sean, I…" Art was cut off by Sarah's ghost.

"Sean is right. Why should I go? After all this pain he's gone through, everything he's had to do, all the lies he's had to tell. I just want to take away his pain. Please, let me help him." Her voice was calm, almost eerily so. Its effect on Sean, though, was downright scary. His tear-streaked face screwed into an angry scowl and he turned his body to face his friend. With difficulty, he drove himself up off his knees and stood shakily. The chain attached to his chest rattled dangerously.

"Yeah. Why, man? I thought you were my friend!" He staggered, an accusing finger raised. "You have no idea what it was like! I never told you…" Sean seemed to choke on his anger.

Art's grip loosened on his sword. Suddenly, he was on the back foot. Rukia laid a hand on his shoulder. She spoke softly, barely above a whisper.

"Remember your duty. She may have been his sister. He may be your friend. But now she is a soul on the verge of becoming a Hollow. Without fail, a wild Hollow's first victim is its family." She let the words hang, heavy as lead in the air above Art's head. He swallowed, slowly.

"Look, Sean. I'm sorry, but I have to do this!" He said forcefully. He took a step forward and brandished his roughhewn weapon. Sean drew himself up and threw his arms wide to block his sister's translucent form.

"You're not going to take her away from me! Not again!"

"Yes," the girl said. Her voice had risen, no longer cool and distant, but carrying a red tinge of anger. "Sean doesn't need you forcing your stupid selfish self on him! Always carrying you around, caring for you! It makes me sick to have to see him hurt himself like that. Now that I'm here, he'll never have to hurt again." She clasped her brother firmly by both shoulders in a tight grip. The motion seemed to shock Sean, however temporarily, from his anger. It soon filtered back into his expression as his sister continued to speak.

"I don't like the sound of this," Art said in a quick aside to his partner. Rukia shared the sentiment, shaking her head and stepping out from Arthur's shadow.

"Spirit, how do you suggest this man lay aside his pain? Would you extend the very suffering you seek to take from him by destroying his house and home when you turn?"

The spirit shook her head. Her face now bore its own angry scowl and her thin smile now showed teeth. "Extend? No, end it. All he has to do is break his chain and he can leave you and your selfish friends and come stay with me! We'd finally get to be happy. Why can't you just let us leave and be happy?"

"No way," Art heard the words leave his lips before he could reign them in. "That would kill him! Sean, are you hearing what she's saying?"

Sean ignored his words. Instead, his eyes were on the frail looking chain extruded from his chest. His hand went to his chest. He looked up again with bitterness in his eyes. He spoke with a dry voice. "This chain? It… keeps me alive?"

"Yes!" Rukia interjected. Art looked back at her and shook his head.

"Sean, what are you doing?"

Sean shook his head. His other hand went to the chain, taking it into a white knuckled grip. "You don't understand. You won't understand. Sarah was everything. I… I failed her. She needed me and I failed her. Now I get a chance to make it right." He wrapped the chain around both of his fists and made as if to tear it asunder.

* * *

_Sean got home and immediately threw himself down on the couch. Or he would have done, if he still had any real control of his muscles. As it was, he performed more of a slow motion slump into the padded faux suede. His head ached, his body ached. He was thirteen years old and he felt like an old man._

"_Totally worth it," Sean unclenched his fist, allowing the white paper bag to unfurl. Inside rattled the tiny blue and green pills that he had spent the entire month slaving way to earn. He ran his thumb over the label, smoothing over where his sister's name was printed on the crinkled paper. A small cough interrupted him. Sean lifted his eyes and peered over the package. Sarah stood leaning in the doorway, pale as a ghost. Discomfort crossed her childish features but her eyes had a hard, determined set to them._

"_What is that?" Her eyes widened as she read the fine print. "How did you get that? Mum said that we couldn't afford any." She padded across the room with an arm outstretched. Sean held out the bag. Sarah snatched at the bag with surprising strength and clutched it close to her chest. "How did you…" her voice quavered as she slipped a tiny hand into the pouch and pulled out the narrow cylinder of yellow plastic._

"_Geez, stop asking questions and just thank me, you big baby." Sean plastered a grin on his face. Sarah continued to give him a hard stare, but the set of her jaw weakened._

"_I'm not a baby."_

"_Are too."_

"_So how did you get them?"_

"_Will you lay off?" _

_Sarah slid onto the sofa next to her brother. She leaned against Sean's arm. She felt as if she weighed little more than a feather. "Thank you, Sean. Could you open it?" She held out the container. Sean gladly took it and made a show of how hard it was to open. He tapped out two of the tiny ovals. Sarah took them without a word and held them out in front of her face. For the first time in a month, a small flicker lit her warm brown eyes._

"_You gotta take two, every day, okay?" Sean asked. His sister nodded, but her flickering eyes scanned the label intently._

"_It says here I need to take three." Sarah looked at her brother sharply._

"_Oh, you know how those doctors are. They always make you take more than you need. Gotta make their quotas or something," Sean replied, rubbing his finger and thumb together in exaggerated pantomime. "Besides, meds are expensive. You gotta make those last 'til I…" He stopped himself, but it was too late. His sister might be frail in body, but Sean knew her mind was still sharper than his own. Her eyes narrowed instantly._

"_Before you what?" For a second, Sean heard a haunting echo of his mother's firm voice in his sister's words. "Sean, did you steal these?" The second question came out a frightened whisper. Sarah covered her mouth._

"_No!" Sean rebutted, perhaps a little too loudly. His eyes flicked to the door. The vague sounds of some god-awful soap opera drifted through unabated. "No, I bought these. See, they even have your name on them. What kind of guy do you think I am, anyway?"_

"_I'm sorry," Sarah deflated and seemed to get even smaller as she shrunk away from Sean's side. "Please don't be mad, Sean."_

"_I'm not mad," Sean said. He didn't think he could ever really be mad at his little sister, no matter what kind of messed up questions she asked. "And I didn't steal anything. I paid for these with my own money."_

"_Your own money? But how did you get enough?"_

"_I… worked for it," Sean replied. It was the truth, though from the look in Sarah's eyes she didn't quite believe it._

"_But you can't work! You're not even in high school yet."_

"_Well I am. Mr. Reynold's down at the garage is letting me help out with the trucks that roll through there."_

"_Dad's old friend?"_

"_Something like that. Owed Dad a few favours, anyway. It's not much, but he says that if I put in the hours, he'll pay me just like he does the other guys there."_

"_But Sean, that's illegal," the whisper voice was back. "Is that why you never walk back with me from school? Is that why you've been so tired? Sean, you could get in so much trouble!"_

"_Not if I don't get caught," Sean said glibly. His flippant tone failed to erase the look on Sarah's face. "Hey, let me do all the worrying here. All you gotta do is take the meds and get better. Maybe when you're all growed up you can ask questions like that, but for now you've gotta focus on just being a good little sister who doesn't yell at her brother." Sarah's eyes turned sad, but she nodded._

"_You didn't have to, you know."_

"_Yeah, I did. Now promise."_

"_I promise."_

* * *

Sean's chain twisted dangerously as he wrung his hands over the dull metal. He gritted his teeth as sweat beaded his forehead.

"Sean, don't do this!" Art yelled. He took a step towards his friend. Sarah let loose a low growl and clutched at her struggling brother protectively with long fingers.

"Don't come any nearer! You're done messing up his life!" she cried. Her voice warbled as she spoke and a cold slug of fear hit Arthur as the bone-chilling howl of a Hollow leaked around her words. A flicker of fear filled _her _eyes at the sound, but it was soon chased away by anger. "Don't make me kill you!"

At this, a seed of doubt seemed to blossom behind Sean's eyes and he ceased struggling with his soul chain. Art seized at the doubt with both hands.

"Sean, I never knew your sister, but I know you. And from what you've told me about Sarah, she'd never ask you to do this to yourself. Listen, I don't want…" He was cut off by a shrill wail. His eyes snapped up to where Sarah should have been floating, but she was gone.

"Oof." Behind him, something rocketed through the air fast enough to cut a line in the drifting dust. Art spun around to see the ghost of Sarah collide with Rukia, knocking the diminutive soul reaper back against the wall. Art raised his sword in a high guard only to have the ghost flash around the blade. Her head hit him first, slamming the air from his lungs. She followed with a rake of suddenly pointed nails. The two of them toppled over in a flurry of limbs. Art tried to grab ahold of the screaming poltergeist, but she squirmed away from his grasp. The nails lashed out again, tearing at Art's sleeves, at his chest, at his face. Anything the belligerent spirit could gain a purchase on.

"Rukia! A little help!" He yelped as sharpened claws tore a thin line across his cheek. Rukia, still sitting dazed against the wall, raised her hand and began to incant. Art struck at the ghost's head before something sickening occurred to him. He had dropped his sword. His eyes searched frantically for the weapon. Sarah did not allow the distraction to go to waste. Her clawing attacks stopped and instead she clasped him about the shoulders with surprising strength. On the other side of the room, Rukia finished her chant.

"Way of Destruction Thirty One, Red Flame Cannon!" Bright red light burst form her outstretched palm and flew, searing, towards the entangled fighters. Sarah screeched and threw herself sideways, putting Art between her and the projectile. It struck Art in the back and drew a strangled cry from his lips. The ghost threw him back down on the fresh burn, summoning fresh waves of pain that drove all thoughts of fight from his mind. All that mattered now was the hurting.

And there was plenty more hurting to come. Sarah knelt atop the stunned substitute Soul Reaper and rained down closed fisted blows, pausing between each one to howl bestially.

"You can't have him! Sean is my Brother! He doesn't need you! He doesn't want you! I won't let you!" Tears flew from the ghost's eyes as the beating grew more intense. Art could do little but raise his arms over his head to fend off the worst of it, but each hit landed with nerve-deadening force.

"Sarah! Please stop!" The cry came from Sean. Both Sarah and her new punching turned to look at the older boy. Fresh tears were on his face and he had let go of his chain, though he had fallen back to his knees. "What's happened to you?"

"Big brother," Sarah sniffed, "I waited for you. I watched over you every day. It hurt. So. Much."

"I don't care," Sean said. The words came out like the snap of a much abused dog. Cold fury had wiped any trace of sadness from his voice. "No one beats up on my friends. Not even you!" red rimmed eyes regarded the wretched ghost of the young girl. "Get off of him."

Sarah responded with a keening wail. She leapt into the air, leaving Art crumpled and bloody on the ground. She screamed as fire seemed to consume what was left of the humanity in her wide, dead eyes. Each scream tore through the room as if it was a wild beast with a mind of its own, rocking the furniture and threatening to tear the hangings from the wall. Sarah grabbed at her own encroached chain with both hands and tore at it with all of her unnatural strength. The final link tore, opening a sucking hole in her chest. Sarah disappeared in a burst of electrified spirit stuff.

"Is it over?" Sean asked numbly. His whole body seemed to sag and wobble dangerously.

"No," Rukia said, crossing the room quickly with catlike grace. She alighted beside Art's shivering body. "Soon she will reform, a full-fledged Hollow. Peveril and I will have to purify her." She laid a hand on Art's chest and puffed out her cheeks. Blue healing light escaped between her fingers, much weaker than the red blast that had leapt out before. Art groaned as his eyes flickered open.

"Did we win?" He asked in a croaky voice.

"No," Rukia answered. She stood quickly and dragged Art's fallen sword from where it had landed behind the sofa. "The spirit was able to overwhelm you. How it has become a full Hollow, you must prepare to fight it."

"But it was you…" Sean started. Rukia silenced him with a severe glare. Art gripped the unfinished handle of his sword again and felt a little energy trickle back into his bruised arms.

"How long?" his voice quavered slightly.

"It won't be…" Rukia started, but she was interrupted by the howl of a Hollow. The burst shreds of Sarah's ghostly form swirled up from where they had fallen, coalescing in a black and grey tornado in the middle of the room. The whirl of spirit energy rapidly took form, shaping itself into a tattered cloak which trailed to the floor. Silver-gold hair spilled from the shadowed cowl and a mask erupted from the gloom. It was pale, almost porcelain-like, like the sad half of the classical theatre twins. Grey half-light glowed from the eye holes. Hideous, malformed arms extruded from the blackness, ending in sharpened scythes.

"Look what you've done!" The Hollow screeched in a voice like shattered glass. "You've turned him against me! I'll kill you!" The scythe armed figure lunged at Art with murderous intent. Art dropped immediately into a forward guard straight of off the _kata_. It would have stopped a downward strike from the front masterfully. Unfortunately, Sarah came slashing in from the side. The scythe-arm bit deep into the flesh just under Art's floating rib. Art felt the strength go out of his right side as the cut opened wider and drove him to one knee. He slammed his sword sideways against the bladed arm, knocking it aside. A short chop to the shadowed cloak drove the Hollow away just far enough for him to regain his feet. The two fighters circled each other in the smashed living room.

"You fool!" Rukia cried. "Remember your training!"

"I was remembering my training," Art spat back. Sarah barreled in for another attack, seizing upon her opponent's distraction. Arthur gave ground, keeping his sword up. The scythe and sword collided in an impressive spray of sparks. Art found himself giving more ground as Sarah drove against his weapon. He let her slip aside him and took another swipe at her cloaked heap. His blade collided with her shadowy shoulder and bit into something hard. Sarah shrieked her Hollow cry again and spiraled away from him. This time, Art gave chase and landed another blow. The attack caught in the cloth of the whirling cloak and Sarah spun like a mad dervish. Her raking claw struck Art in the gut with its blunted side and knocked him over onto his back. She screamed and plunged her scythe downwards.

Something arrested her swing, stopping the attack before it could land a fatal blow. The masked face turned slowly. Sean lay on his stomach, hands outstretched to where he had latched onto the cloak with both fists. Sarah roared at his betrayal and raised a claw to slash at her own brother. Art gathered his strength and leapt at the Hollow with his sword high over his head. It landed dead center, cracking the tin mask. The scythe dropped harmlessly to Sarah's side. The mask fell away, revealing the little girl's face once again.

"Sean," she said; her voice tiny once again. "I broke my promise."

"That's okay," Sean replied. "I don't blame you."

Sarah gave her brother a sad smile. Her Hollow body exploded in a plume of black-grey dust, leaving silence to once again consume the room. A dry sob escaped Sean's throat. He swiped at his eyes and looked up at his friend. Art's sword was still outstretched, held aloft by shaking hands.

"I'm so, so sorry, Sean." Art said. Sean could only nod dully.

* * *

_Sean sat cross legged on the floor, an array of tools spread out around him as he leafed through the manual spread open on his lap. He bopped his head to the beat that rattled through the taped together headphones that sat crookedly on top of his head. He absent-mindedly tapped his toe against the partially disassembled engine block. _

"_Hey! Hey kid!" Sean looked up. Across the room, Andy Reynolds stood in the doorway with gloved hands crossed across his broad chest. His bushy eyebrows were knitted in an expression that the boss always reserved for bad news. Sean plucked the headphones away._

"_Yeah, boss?" Sean hurried to unfold himself, scattering tools every which way. He wiped greasy hands over the dirty plaid shirt and shot the garage manager a quizzical look._

"_I… got some bad news, kiddo," the older man said with a grimace. He scratched at his mustache. "Why don't you come on over to my office, all right?"_

"_What's going on, boss?" Sean asked as he clambered up the side of the engine. "Are those parts still being held up in Boston? Because I told Marco that we didn't even need them, we've got all the stuff right here."_

"_It's not about the parts. Now come on, all right? I gotta talk to you." At the strained tone in the older man's voice, something clicked in Sean's head. He grabbed a rag off a nearby toolbox and followed his boss through the busy workshop area. The two other guys working in the shop studiously avoided looking at him. Marco, the head mechanic, went so far as to tug the worn red baseball cap he always wore a little lower over his eyes. Sean began to feel his heart beat feverishly in his chest as Andy closed the office door behind them._

"_Siddown, Kiddo," the manager motioned to the raggedy brown chair that faced his desk. Sean slid into it as the man took his own seat. Sean suddenly became conscious of the fact that his toes just brushed the ground below him. "So," the burly manager started. He rubbed worn hands together, wringing the knuckles. "You know me and the guys like having you around. God knows, you work hard enough."_

"_What are you getting at?" Sean asked defensively._

"_Come on, kid. You're smarter than that. Look. Your dad, he was a great guy, a great cop. Maybe the best of cops, I don't know. The thing is; he's gone." He raised his hands as Sean began an angry retort. "I know, and I'm sorry, but it's true. And the guys working this beat now, they're not the same. They sweat the small stuff, the things your dad knew to let slide as long as everyone played nice. Anyhow, they've been sniffing around and…"_

"_You're firing me?" Sean asked. He tried, and failed, to keep his voice steady. Reynolds' lips pressed into a thin line._

"_Hell, kiddo. You don't gotta say it like that. You knew this thing wasn't going to be forever when I took you on, which was a whole lot of risk on my part I'll remind you. I could go to prison, you know."_

"_No you wouldn't," Sean replied out of habit. "You're looking at fines, at the most. Probably less than you've already paid me."_

"_You…" Reynold's finger shook as he pointed it at his youngest ex-employee. "Ha, perhaps you should be sneaking into a fancy law firm instead of my little shop. Look, I'm sorry, kid. I really am, and don't think I don't feel like an asshole for doing it. But I can't have you working here if some officer of the law comes sniffing about." He turned his back on Sean and walked over to the grey metal safe set in his office wall. "Here take this. It's what I owe you for this week."_

_Sean took the crumpled envelope in a shaking hand. His up-until-now boss had more empty words, but they streamed past him unheard. The words stopped. Sean realized that he was standing. Reynold's mouth was hanging slightly open while his forgotten finger still waggled weakly._

"_You're killing her, Andy. You're killing Sarah!" He had meant the words to come out quietly, but they burst out with an alien fierceness. Sean fled the office before Andy Reynold's shocked surprise could crystallize itself into something more dangerous. His feet pounded on the concrete floor as he left the shop. Someone yelled something after him as he passed through the glass doors. He ignored it, focusing everything into running._

_By the time he arrived at the stairs leading to his front door, the hot anger had dissipated, leaving only the lingering coils of guilt that twisted in his gut after a really good shouting match. Sean leaned against his front door gulping down air as shakes wracked his overworked legs._

"_Damn it," he cursed Andy Reynolds with all the bitter words he'd ever heard his dad utter when he thought nobody was around to hear. His heart wasn't in it though. He couldn't really be angry at the man, especially given the risks that his father's buddy had taken on his account. No more than he could be mad at his father for not being there to take care of him, or blame his sister for being sick in the first place. That left a pretty short list of people to lay his anger on. Sean punched the door until his fist grew numb._

_Looking around, he realized he was making a scene. A few of the nosier neighbors were peeking through drawn back curtains. Sean flipped them off and tugged the door open, slamming in the voyeurs' faces. He tossed the envelope at the side table without opening it. Just from the weight he knew it wasn't enough. He stalked into the house in a black funk. Loud snoring escaped from the closed door of his mother's bedroom. On the table, an abandoned package of her smokes stood half empty. Sean drew out one of the foul tasting white cylinders and flicked open a purloined lighter. He coughed bitterly as he pulled his first shaking lungful. Even after a couple weeks of sneaking the illicit cigarettes, he still couldn't bring himself to puff away at them like his co-workers did._

_He clenched the burning stick of tobacco between his teeth and walked to the kitchen counter, trying very hard to put on a calm face. He reached up into a cabinet and pulled down the half empty pot of his sister's pills. They rattled indignantly at being disturbed so roughly as he poured them out onto the counter. He counted thirteen. He grimaced. The small caplets had been keeping his sister alive for almost an entire year past the grim forecast that Doctor Carter had given him all those months ago. And now there would be no more. Sean couldn't help but feel to blame as he scooped all but one back into the pot. He reached up again, this time grabbing a simple Advil. The two looked similar enough, if you didn't look too hard. Sean threw away his cigarette._

_He made the plodding journey down the hall to where his sister was sleeping. He knocked on the door and gritted his teeth for his sister's usual cheerful call. He felt like a murderer._

"_Come in," Sarah said. Sean opened the door. Sarah looked up from her nest of pillows. Her bright blonde hair was spread out behind her on the bed spread, framing a gaunt and pale face covered in sweat. She was still able to manage a smile for her big brother. Sean slipped into the chair he always kept at her bedside._

"_Hey, Sarah. Time for your meds." He held out the pill and its imposter brother alongside a glass of cool water. Sarah swallowed them obediently. "How are you feeling today?"_

"_Feeling better," the girl managed. The same thing she always said, no matter how much worse she looked than the day before. "Sean. Are you okay?"_

"_Me? Yeah, fine." Sarah wasn't the only Nichols who had lies to tell. Sarah's unfocused eyes slipped over his face and her smile faltered slightly._

"_You stink."_

"_Do not."_

"_Do too," Sarah reached weakly for Sean's hand. He took it in his grip and stroked the back of her thumb, just as he always did. "You're working too hard, Sean. Working too hard for me." The stung at first, and Sean almost felt the yelling rise up in him again. He quelled it, though. Sarah couldn't know the cruel irony of her words._

"_That's what brothers do when their dumb sisters go and get sick," he said gently. With his other hand he brushed a damp lock of hair out of Sarah's eyes._

"_Most of them don't skip school to buy their sisters meds," Sarah said in an acerbic tone. "How many days this week, huh?" the girl knitted a frown across her pale face. Her lip trembled as Sean hung his head. "I'm serious. You can't keep skipping."_

"_But," Sean was interrupted as Sarah gripped his hand._

"_Nuh uh, no buts. Don't do it, Sean. Don't throw everything away just to… just to keep me alive. Dad wouldn't want you to."_

"_How can you even say that?" Sean asked. His sister's words tore into his chest, leaving it hollow. "I'll do whatever it takes, even if it just gives you another day!"_

"_Sean, stop." Sarah turned her head, looking away from him. The gesture struck Sean as uncomfortably adult for a girl of just twelve. "Please. I've thought about this a lot. You're only fourteen, but every time you walk through that door you look like an old man. You've got a whole life to live once I'm gone. You shouldn't live it feeling broken like that."_

"_Sarah…"_

"_Remember when I made you that promise?" Sean nodded. "Well now it's your turn. Make me a promise that you'll go back to school. Make me a promise that you'll keep going, even without me."_

"_You know I can't do that. And besides, I've already missed so much. They'll probably make me do the whole year again."_

"_Promise me!" Sarah's demand was punctuated by wracking coughs. Red flecks spotted her flowered bed covers. Sean's heart dropped out through his feet as he rushed to her side with the water. "Promise me."_

"_I promise." Sean said in a broken voice as he wiped tears out of his sister's eyes. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I promise I'll do all those things. Do you forgive me?"_

"_Always."_

* * *

Sean sat with his knees to his chest in the dust that marked his Sister's final passing. He rocked lightly back and forth and drank slowly from a cracked glass of water. Beside him, Art sat invisibly next to his friend, his own legs crossed in front of him with the black iron blade laid across them. Across from them, Rukia's gigai sat on her heels. The free of them sat in silence for a long time before Sean spoke.

"So you guys, you and Artie. You fight ghosts now? Ghost's like Sarah?"

"We do," Rukia said. She had explained the whole thing to Sean earlier, thankfully without hauling out her sketchbook. He was not taking it well.

"This is so weird," Sean said between sips. "I'm not sure if I can believe it. How long has this been going on? Are there more of you?"

Art opened his mouth before remembering that now he was back in his body; Sean wouldn't be able to hear him anyway. Instead he looked pleadingly at Rukia. She shook her head sadly and reached into her breast pocket. Art looked away with a curse on his lips. He winced as the hollow pop of Rukia's memory altering device went off. Sean's bod slumped back against the torn sofa and he immediately began snoring.

"Come on, let's go," Art said disgustedly. Rukia nodded and went to the window without a word. Art followed her, pausing only to look back at his sleeping friend. "I'm sorry that you had to get involved in this, mate. I guess it's for the best that you don't remember it, though." His own words sounded hollow in his ears. A twinge of guilt followed the very real spasm of pain that rocked his wound. "I'll see you in the morning." Art leapt from the broken window and into the night.

* * *

Author's Note:

So this chapter ended up coming out less like an episode of Bleach and more like an episode of Lost. I hope you like it, but if you didn't, don't worry. The rest of the introductions will be much less flashback heavy. Thank you for reading, I hope to see your feedback soon!

-Liddle Out


End file.
